


Kriegsspiel

by Madchen



Category: The Man in the High Castle (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Canon Compliant, Cigarettes, Denial, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Fascism, Gay, Gun Kink, Gunplay, Implied/Referenced Torture, Light Masochism, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Mentor/Protégé, Military Backstory, Military Uniforms, Nazis, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Power Dynamics, Praise Kink, Pre-Canon, Psychological Torture, Sadism, Torture, Water Torture, heteroflexible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 13:54:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8847634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madchen/pseuds/Madchen
Summary: “Do you know why you were unsuccessful, John?” Heydrich spoke softly into the silence, his voice no less dangerous for its quietness. “Do you want to know?”  
Hauptsturmführer John Smith goes to extreme lengths to impress his new mentor, but Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich has other ideas. An exploration of what might have been between two of the most important men in the GNR.  
COMPLETED.





	1. Opening Shots

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ars_belli](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ars_belli/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The making of John Smith](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6283894) by [ars_belli](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ars_belli/pseuds/ars_belli). 



> Written for the delightful ars_in_belli with whom I have spent many happy hours discussing the intricacies of TMITHC and John Smith. Words cannot describe how lucky I am to have her as a friend. 
> 
> ars was also the beta for this work, and I consider her work, The making of John Smith, to have been my main inspiration.   
> Any errors, however, are mine. Any complaints on the subject matter will be discounted. If you have a problem with Nazis, why are you even here? 
> 
> I've taken a leaf out of another writers' book when it comes to write about Heydrich, using two of his nicknames - “Chief” and “Oberverdachtsschöpfer”, an untranslatable German neologism from a combination of “Verdacht schöpfen” (to get suspicious of something) and the prefix “Ober-” meaining “chief, major”. I sincerely hope linndechir does not mind!

   John felt cold anger burn through him, bitter bile that seemed to taste like failure rose in his throat as his stomach sank. His eyes itched; it was late, far later than he still should have been here, and it was beginning to impair his judgement. He needed to eat, to go home and rest, but both were impossible. He couldn’t leave this room without results, one way or the other. He betrayed none of this with his body language; face as implacable as ever as he considered the freezing room with a critical eye.

   He put the baton down for a moment, walking over to take a glass of water, pacing backwards and forwards as he sought to re-centre himself, to make sense of what he already knew. Instead, his mind kept sliding back the woman in front of him, and the things he had done, as well as the things he still had left to exploit. What had started like any other day had ended like this, with a prisoner hung before him, her body turning purplish red from the bruises and the ruptures that had been caused by the blunt force trauma he’d been inflicting on her. It had started off gently, and built to this horrific disfiguration upon her person. It filled him with a sickening feeling between curiosity and horror. 

   He exhaled as he checked his watch; he should have gone home hours ago. He should be attending the function occurring right now upstairs alongside the Obergruppenführer, dressed smartly and attending to Heydrich and his guests. But here he was, jacket and belt removed, sleeves rolled up, splattered with blood, with nothing to show for it except a ruined shirt.

   It had begun as a relatively amenable interview with Hauptsturmführer Muller that had taken a nasty turn. It had been routine for the most part; with the recent arrival of Obergruppenführer Heydrich to New York, they had been acquainting themselves with the list of spies, moles and infiltrators they had been given by the Kripo, reviewing the information before presenting it to him. It was SS etiquette to have two officers present for any conversation held with informants as it was deemed more likely for at least one of them to be able to pick up on any deception. As it happened, having the two of them present had worked out for the best.

   It hadn’t occurred to him until they were ending the interview, but it struck him as strange, the way the woman folded her arms, right hand grasping her forearm, an oddly awkward pose that wasn’t explained by any discomfort at having to speak to them.  Call it a hunch, or intuition, but John had been unwilling to let it pass. It was at this point, when he had politely asked her to pull up her sleeve, that it had turned savage. How she had cursed when they’d stripped her of her clothing, and how angry they had been when they had revealing her camp identity number tattoo on her left forearm, a black smear over the top of where numbers had been.

   He’d grappled her, pinning her whilst the guards more permanently restrained her, hanging her like a side of meat for a more in-depth ‘examination’.  When their permanent Headquarters were built, they wouldn’t have to make do like this, adapting an interrogation room for the purposes of torture, but until such a project was approved, the SS had to use what it had available. As she hung before them, his fellow aides had been unwilling to do anything other than interrogate her and slap her face, eager to leave the room and research her identity now they had her camp number. It had ultimately fallen to him to adopt and adapt to the role of torturer.

   He had done little other than confirm her name and her previous incarceration within a camp, each piece of information flung at him with a mouthful of blood and spit. Her face was puffed up and swollen, her hair caked in matting blood. Her teeth sprinkled the floor like snowflakes, but still he hadn’t stopped. Somebody had to squeeze every piece of information from her before she died.  She had nothing to lose, and that was what made the remaining Semites such a dangerous threat to the regime. His experiences told him that, and that was why he still grasped the baton in his hand, unwilling to stop.

      “Guten Abend Hauptsturmführer Smith,” Footsteps followed the commanding voice, followed soon afterwards by a tall, familiar figure wearing the distinctive SS- _Gesellschaftsanzug_. “I wondered where you had gotten to.” It almost sounded like a recrimination, but the tone gave nothing away. Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich moved within his orbit, not a hair out of place, a glass of some fine alcohol in his hand, looking completely at ease, much as he always did. In his mind, John often associated this man with a snake – cold blooded, dangerous, but wielding a silver tongue and an effortless charm that one often found disarming.  Perfect for the head of the SS in the Greater Nazi Reich. He fought the urge to back away from either the half-dead woman or Heydrich.

     “Herr Obergruppenführer.” Almost subconsciously, his heels clicked together, back straightening and right hand rising to salute. He suddenly felt under-dressed, his jacket removed to make it his baton strokes easier, the top buttons and tie loosened about his throat. A lazy motion from Heydrich’s right hand indicated John could relax his posture. “I apologise for my absence; I was told that you wanted a report on your desk by the time you arrived first thing tomorrow morning.” His left hand sub-consciously twitched; had no one told their superior that the situation had changed? “I therefore felt it would improper for me to attend a function with work unfinished.”

   Heydrich seemed to survey him critically for a moment, blue eyes flickering twice over John before he seemed to reach a conclusion, stripping him back and assessing every part of him. “What of your colleagues that I also gave that order to? They do not seem to be as diligent as you, Hauptsturmführer Smith.” He raised his half full glass to his lips. The smile on his lips was barely that, but something seemed to be amusing him. Was it John’s less-than-perfect appearance or something else that entertained him? He continued the conversation. “No, they rather seem to be enjoying the reception upstairs.”

     “It is up to them how they choose to follow your instructions, sir,” John spoke diplomatically; “Then again, perhaps they had more success following the paper trail than I did with the prisoner.” He did not care for his colleagues, but neither did he wish to disparage them. Upon discovering her camp tattoo, his fellows had been quick to leave, citing the urgent need to follow up on this lead. Reports had continually filtered down to him throughout the day that her entire family had been exterminated but they had been very unwilling to assist him with the dirty work. Their absence would damn them in Heydrich’s eyes without the need for him to appear petty. He therefore said nothing; he was above such things, and the Oberverdachtsschöpfer was more than capable of seeing what was right before his eyes.

     “That is not what I asked you.” His voice did not sound accusatory despite his words; he seemed to now be considering in the almost- dead prisoner, wearing her bloody raiment, drops trickling down her body and onto the floor. His cold eyes then returned to John. “You followed procedure?”

     “To the letter, Herr Obergruppenführer.”

     “And she’s revealed nothing of interest?”

     “No, Herr Obergruppenführer.” Almost bored, Heydrich placed his glass down and reached for the paper folder on the chair beside the hanging victim. He read the notes that John had written in a hastily cursive hand, paying special attention to the scant memos that had arrived throughout the day, eyes narrowing as he scanned the information. More than usual, John felt like an errant child, about to be scolded for something. Had he failed to take something into account? Should he have pressed her further, or used a different technique? A few minutes passed before he closed the sleeve, twisting the closure shut and replacing it. John said nothing.

     “Then she is of no further use.” Heydrich spoke with a tone of finality as he inclined his head to her, eyes drawing a line between the prisoner and the holster that held John’s Luger, raising an eyebrow. It was rather clear what the next step was to be, and John willing obeyed.

   With steady hands, he returned to his belt, removed the gun, ensured it was ready and with careful precision shot her in the head. Heydrich had taken an elegant step back, retreating to avoid the splash of blood that sprayed John anew. It had gotten deceptively easy, he realised, for him to execute prisoners. That sickened feeling washed over him anew. Wasn’t this the reason he’d moved away from front line duty? He swallowed. Frowning to himself, he reminded himself that he had done what no one else had been willing to do, as he always had. His hands no longer shook when he held a gun, and he felt firmly resolute in the knowledge that he was on the side of right. Standing here beside the Man with the Iron Heart, he had never felt more relevant. Orders were orders; she was a traitor, and would have died of her injuries had he not taken her life.  It was a mercy, really, far kinder than the sort of treatment she would have received had she been handed over to the Kripo.

   They stood, frozen in time, for a few moments.

     “Do you know why you were unsuccessful, John?” Heydrich spoke softly into the silence, his voice no less dangerous for its quietness. “Do you want to know?”

     “Herr Obergruppenführer?” Somehow, Heydrich was suddenly close enough to smell, the scent of cigarette smoke clinging to him, along with a fresh, cold blast from his ascent through the building.  He must have moved closer when John had been deep in thought, possessing a grace that many of their gender lacked. There was something else too, perhaps cologne, applied hours ago but not yet faded. That smile was inches from his own mouth, far too close for comfort. 

   For brief seconds they inhaled each other’s breath, and then a gloved hand rose to touch John’s face and he flinched. Heydrich never laughed, but a smirk tugged on the corner of his mouth as he brushed a splash of blood from John’s cheek, rubbing the liquid between his fingertips, observing it before turning his attention back to John. They stood together for a few minutes more, as if assessing each other before a battle, gaining the measure of the other. Heydrich seemed pleased with what he found, breaking their eye contact first with a curt nod.

     “Tomorrow then.” He promised. “Get dressed and go home. I will have your colleagues deal with this.” He waved his free hand at the hanging corpse and paperwork, not giving it another moment’s consideration before raising the glass to his mouth again and drinking a mouthful. “Think it over, John, and have an answer for me tomorrow.”


	2. Tracer Rounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know, you never answered my question this morning, John.” Heydrich looked up from his cup, allowing the storm in the cup to settle, catching John’s eye and holding him still, paralysed. Whether it was from fear or awe, John wasn’t sure; he did not dare to move a muscle. Swallowing before he replied, he maintained their connection, more afraid of showing weakness.
> 
> Home offers John some respite, but Heydrich still claws through his thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all my lovely reviewers and kudos givers, means a lot that you like what I wrote enough to leave a comment. 
> 
> Just a quick note - This was written pre-s2 release so there are some....inconsistencies now, but they aren't major enough to warrant a re-write, and I don't wish to spoiler it for anyone.

   The sun rose early and woke him up, a shaft of light cast across his face. John sighed a little and rolled over, turning his back to the window and wrapping his arms around Helen, pulling her close. She still slept, breathing gently, making a soft noise of happiness as he drew her to his warmth, allowing himself to be still.

   His thoughts clung to the image of his prisoner the previous day; she might have been Resistance but she was also a woman, and killing women and children had always sat poorly with him. Had she been armed, perhaps it wouldn’t have bothered him so much. Nevertheless, when he closed his eyes he was reminded of her face, the expression frozen as life was extinguished by his gunshot. Gritting his teeth he forced the unpleasant memory from his mind’s eye, concentrating on that precise moment.

   Face buried in his wife’s light hair, he took a few moments to enjoy this quiet, wordless time they had together before the windup alarm clock went off.  He thought he could feel her heartbeat, echoing just after his, and it cooled his anxiety. He normally didn’t indulge in this sort of sentimentality, but after the previous evening, John needed a little comfort, a few moments time stolen.

   Shrill notes forced him to move to stop his alarm, and he sighed and rose to begin his day. Purging his mind with exercise, he scrubbed up and dressed for work, in time for Helen to have risen and brewed a pot of coffee, still smiling even though she was green with morning sickness. They made brief small talk about her hospital appointment later and she reminded him of their plans for that weekend to begin preparing the apartment for their child. He felt this premature, but didn’t speak it aloud, just smiled a small smile and nodded. She kissed his cheek as she handed over a bag, packed with his lunch and work notes, securely locked away overnight and they embraced for a moment. He couldn’t feel the bump of their baby through her clothes yet, but still found a curious pleasure in the sensation of holding his family in his arms. He bid her good day and set off, locking the door behind him before descending to the outside world.

   The apartment was perhaps grander than they needed, but it had come as a perk of the job, offering a moderate view of the city. It was inconvenient insofar as they had nowhere to park a car but that was a small price to pay for the ease of his morning commute. It also allowed him the convenience of working late or starting early as he so desired without having to waste time travelling from out of the city as many of his colleagues did. When their family grew, they would move; but by then, he would have a more secure job and stable income. He had visions of a garden in which he could play with their children, enjoying the fine weather with Helen, hosting parties of the kind he remembered sharing with his own family before the Crash. Hazy memories by now, but warm and familiar.

   He snapped out of his reverie upon noticing a parked car waiting outside, the engine ticking over as a young NSKK driver waited on the pavement. 

     “Good morning, Hauptsturmführer Smith.” He saluted smartly and efficiently, before speaking in clear English, the accent tainted with a native German speakers’ inflection.  Returning the gesture, John couldn’t fail to recognise the occupier and felt his interest pique immediately. “Obergruppenführer Heydrich’s route bought his car near your residence this morning and wishes for you to join him.” He did not wait for an answer, but opened the door and quickly walked around the front of the vehicle before slamming the door shut. With an uncertain feeling, John rested a hand on the open door and climbed in.

     “Good morning, Hauptsturmführer Smith. I trust you slept well?” Despite personally adhering to the strict rules of etiquette established by Heydrich, he had found it most perturbing to be referred to by his first name the previous evening and was relieved to have returned to the status quo. He was neither well-acquainted with the Obergruppenführer or in a situation where such familiarity was appropriate; nevertheless, John had chalked Heydrich’s peculiar behaviour the previous night up to a difference in culture (Europeans were known for being more physically expressive) and a little too much wine. It was entirely explicable and forgivable considering the circumstances, especially considering John’s own rather fraught state. He didn’t intend to bring it up, and he rather expected the same from the Obergruppenführer. He nonetheless smiled and responded.

     “Well enough, Herr Obergruppenführer, thank you.” He inclined his head politely; it never did any harm to be especially deferential to Heydrich, even on so little sleep. “Did you enjoy the rest of your evening?” A non-invasive question, perfectly acceptable and not overstepping any bounds of intimacy; it did not do to be overly familiar with ones’ superiors, especially not those as fastidious as Heydrich.  It was disconcerting but permissible for the Obergruppenführer to be overly familiar with his underlings, but John did not wish to discover the punishment for appearing too friendly to the Chief. Still, he was dancing with this particular devil much earlier than planned and wasn’t quite as prepared as he would have liked to be.

     “A party is what you make of it.” He replied flippantly, the words almost sounding like a sigh. There was a dangerous twinkling in his eye, something John had not seen before.  Heydrich leant a little closer, conspiratorially. “After our little conversation, John, I found that I enjoyed it a great deal more.” His eyes flicked down briefly and John was left to puzzle over the meaning of these words whilst Heydrich readjusted the dark metal ring on his left ring finger, aligning it upright, one glance to check it was in the correct place, before he turned to look at his younger colleague once more.

   John wondered whether Himmler had ever regretted the decision to honour Heydrich with the Ehren-ring before quickly admonishing himself; it was not his place to question his superiors. That said, it was an inelegant piece of jewellery for such long fingered hands; hands that were undoubtedly polluted with the blood that earned it a thousand times over. He wondered just how stained this man’s soul was, and what he’d had to do to in order to achieve the rank of Obergruppenführer. It both intrigued and reviled him, but John was not afraid of his superior, unlike the rest of his colleagues. He returned the intense look Heydrich gave him without looking away, an almost defiant expression on his face.

   There was a silence between them before Heydrich’s hands, finished with his own preening, moved to touch John’s chest, neatening the medals, barely moving them but improving upon the symmetry. John felt his stomach sink; like a child being appraised by a parent, he sat awkwardly, avoiding the urge to fidget. He held his breath, not daring to even interrupt Heydrich with a sigh.

     “Have you figured it out, John?” Still closer than John found comfortable, Heydrich exhaled the words, speaking as if it was some great secret that only they shared. His hands continued to play across John’s chest, head slightly to the side as he ensured the alignment of the uniform decoration.

     “To what are you referring, Herr Obergruppenführer?” John raised an eyebrow in response, fighting the urge to bat his superiors’ hands away. He gritted his teeth; the Chief seemed to be taking a great deal of pleasure in his discomfort, prolonging it with the delicate drawing of a finger across his lapels.

     “Why you failed last night?” Heydrich put an emphasis on the word ‘failed’, a smirk on his mouth, his eyes flickering up from the gleaming medals and confidently holding John’s gaze. “Let us ignore the fact that she couldn’t have told you anything without teeth.” He seemed particularly amused by that, his head tilting back to the side, bright blue eyes flashing. John found himself flushing under that look without even wanting to.

   There were a million reasons why he had failed the previous evening; he’d asked the wrong questions, he’d pushed her too hard too early, she had no information to give, she had already shared it, she was inured to the pain … but all reasons pointed to his own failings, one way or another. Ire rose within him towards those he worked with, up to and including Heydrich himself, who still seemed amused by the whole situation; why shouldn’t he be amused, John thought, his career isn’t predicated on his success here. He fought to keep his expression neutral, the barest trace of sullenness masked by professional blankness.

     “I’m sorry I failed you, Herr Obergruppenführer.” He spoke the words clearly, trying to keep them free of any trace of bitterness, but not entirely succeeding.

     “That’s where you are wrong, John.” Spidery fingers withdrew his tie from his jacket, tightening the knot and pushing it fractionally higher than John found comfortable. Heydrich sensed his discomfort and did not relent, watching the lump in his throat quiver as John tilted his chin back. “You didn’t fail me. You failed yourself.” He drew back to watch the reaction of his words on his underling, the smile never failing. A slight tic on John’s left eye betrayed his frustration and Heydrich knew he had won. One hand returned to John’s throat and lingered on his party pin, maintaining their eye contact. “You’re angry, of course, but never forget there are hundreds of other capable men-and less capable ones – ready and willing to take your position. Last night you allowed your colleagues to foist their responsibilities onto you and for you to take the blame for their failings. That sort of loyalty is commendable in the field between soldiers but is effectively suicidal for you as an officer if you wish to progress.” Heydrich scrutinised him closely before raising an eyebrow. “You do wish to progress?”

     “Of course I do, Herr Obergruppenführer,” John said almost immediately. He didn’t stammer, his voice didn’t lose its strength, and he felt proud of that. “Thank you for your insight and the opportunity.” He had just been undermined and offered something of an olive branch, a second, final chance to impress the Oberverdachtsschöpfer.

     “Don’t thank me, John.  Just do your job and no one else’s.” He waved a hand dismissively, retreating from John’s personal space and back into his own. John subconsciously released a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. “How is your wife? I hear she is pregnant.”

     “Yes, she is due to visit her mother. The city isn’t suiting her condition, and the doctor suggested fresh air might be beneficial.” It was disguised as small talk, but could one ever really tell with the Chief? John spoke succinctly but gave as little away as he could. He very much felt as if he was at a chess board with a shaky grasp of the rules, face to face with a master. Again, his curiosity overruled any sense of fear that lurked within him.

     “She must do what is best for your child, John.  Motherhood is the most important job in the Reich.” It almost felt like a lecture, but a more gentle smile came to Heydrich’s lips, his hands settling in his lap. “Just as a woman can never understand war as men do, so too can we never understand the sacrifice mothers make every day for their families.”

     “Herr Obergruppenführer, do you have children? It sounds as if you speak from experience.” Feeling bolder, John probed a little, taking a piece and making his first move. Every step must be considered, gambles needed to be taken. This was perhaps war by other means, he considered, where words were bullets and knowledge your troops.

     “I have that blessing, John.” Heydrich affirmed, revealing nothing else. “When you have achieved all that I have, you aren’t prepared for something so simple to change your life so greatly.” His hand clasped John’s shoulder in a supportive gesture, and squeezed in an almost paternal motion. “It is going to change your life; fatherhood makes a man a man.” How quickly he changed tact and approach, like a chameleon, John thought.

     “I am looking forward to the challenge, Herr Obergruppenführer.” Noticing they had arrived outside of the SS building, Heydrich’s smile didn’t falter. He exited the vehicle and waited until John, lagging half a step behind him, accompanied him into the atrium.

     “I enjoyed our drive this morning, Hauptsturmführer, we should do this again.” He stopped before the lifts, turning to address John directly. “Have my coffee ready for me in 15 minutes, Hauptsturmführer.” John nodded and was about to correctly reply when, without further explanation Heydrich left the conversation, leaving John alone to consider all that had been said.

   He watched the Obergruppenführer approach the woman who worked the reception desk and strike up what looked like a working conversation, and was handed a thick file of papers. She was smiling and blushing, flattered by the attention paid to her by one of the higher ranking officers in the building.

   John wondered, as he entered the lift, if he had looked like that on his first exposure to Heydrich.  How callow he must have looked, and it had not been all that long ago. Who could blame anyone, though, for reacting in that way? The Obergruppenführer might have an iron heart, but his blood was warm, and he employed an allure that one couldn’t help but fall for, a charisma that had a habit of influencing even his enemies. It would be impossible not to admire him.

   John chastised himself for his previous thoughts – taken out of context, they made him sound positively smitten. He was an officer; he reminded himself, not a new recruit who was easily overwhelmed by the war stories and legends of his superiors.  He had to set an example; starting with his uniform, he would have to make sure it was parade perfect tomorrow.  He would not be dressed down by Heydrich again, for anything. He made the promise to himself and intended to honour it. He would not be cajoled and re-pinned like a schoolboy. When he next sat in that car beside the Obergruppenführer, he would be immaculate, proud and straight-backed and prepared for a more equal conversation than that which had occurred this morning.

   Still, he considered, it had given him a curious pleasure this time to be called by his first name by the Oberverdachtsschöpfer, his German accent making it sound far more interesting than its two syllables otherwise indicated.

   The toll of a bell and he reached his destination; one of the higher floors of the building, and one of the more finely decorated. With Heydrich in attendance and with the Resistance still a force to be reckoned with, guards were posted at frequent intervals. He knew them all by sight if not by name, and they all nodded as he passed, showing respect.  They would not be much longer in this building, he reminded himself, a new purpose-built architectural marvel being designed presently by Speer.  He was almost excited; until the Greater Nazi Reich had its own culture firmly imprinted on America,  it would always been seen as merely an occupying force , requisitioning a decadent, rotten culture, building itself on unstable foundations. It needed to wipe away the remains and start again. Starting with this building.

   Upon entering the floor and hanging his coat in the discrete cloakroom, he began his days’ work. Flicking the light switch on in the small kitchen, he arranged the cafetiere with its expensive coffee to percolate whilst he continued his housekeeping duties. This floor had once been home to the offices of the executives of a failed investment company; now it only hosted the Obergruppenführer and his staff, the sort of people you didn’t ask too many questions about and who tended to work in the field more often than not. It was elegant, in an old-fashioned sort of way, none of the cheapness of the later American architectural movements present in its design. Classic and ultimately not against the rules of the Nazi aesthetic.

   Checking the clock, he smiled as he saw that everything was according to plan. The office had to be prepared: he opened the blinds onto an unremarkable day in the city, cracking the window a tad to allow a gentle breeze to move the air around the room.  Next he inspected that the room had been correctly cleaned, remembering an incident when the Obergruppenführer had first arrived and it had been less than his expectations. John and his colleagues had stayed overnight to clean the room to Heydrich’s exacting standards, reminding him of his days as a cadet when their officers had found them similarly humiliating tasks to accomplish. They had all struck up a sort of camaraderie that night, but it had quickly evaporated over the next few weeks as they all jockeyed for more beneficial assignments. John had gotten the impression that Heydrich rather liked watching his subordinates competing and fighting amongst themselves for his favour. He had always thought himself above such petty bureaucratic scuffles, but he had found himself drawn into them without even meaning to on several occasions. He would have to rise above that sooner rather than later.

   He carefully opened the drawer with a key and secured it back in its hiding place, distributing the neatly typed reports on the desk as appropriate for their importance, scanning the summaries based on his own knowledge of what projects were currently ongoing. His German was fairly rusty, but he was confident with the assessment.

   The coffee continued to brew elsewhere so as not to permeate the room with its scent; unlike his colleagues who attempted to cut corners, John took the extra time to ensure Heydrich’s wishes were fulfilled to the letter. He wasn’t afraid of the man himself, but rather his wrath. The flowers in a grand nouveau vase were, aside from the splashes of red in the paintings, the only thing in the room that granted it any colour, and John quickly picked out any that were wilting or less than perfect.  Back to the coffee, he disposed of the dead flowers, assembling the tray efficiently. As he orientated the fine china with its almost delicate SS engraving, he considered again the advice he’d been offered that morning; another test, surely, from a man who played games within games. Straightening up, he returned to the room, placing it read on the desk, four cubes of sugar carefully arranged for Heydrich to add as he pleased.

   One final scan of the room and he took his place at the door, checking the clock; 14 and a half minutes –Heydrich was nothing if not punctual. John inhaled, assembling his wits for round two. 10 seconds to go; he exhaled. The door opened, right on cue.

     “Good morning again, Hauptsturmführer Smith.” Accompanied by another aide who opened the door for him and departed, the Obergruppenführer arrived, saluting. John returned the gesture sharply, every angle of his body correctly posed.  No more mistakes, he told himself. Heydrich passed John the folder that he had been handed in the atrium, along with his hat and gloves. John took them and placed them safely away, returning to the office and standing to the side of the Obergruppenführer’s desk to await orders for his day and a dismissal. It didn’t come.

   Instead, Heydrich kept him waiting, having taken his seat behind the desk. Idly, he languidly stirred the coffee, manicured hands placing one cube in after another. John counted and watched each one sink and dissolve, appreciating the sensation of being in hot water. Standing beside the desk he felt as if he was being surveyed, analysed… dissected, even, by that ice cold stare; the part-smile on his superior’s mouth failing to reach his eyes.  Still, John remained rigid, upright, unyielding, the picture of obedience. The fourth and last cube remained poised, waiting. Heydrich shifted in his seat a little, leaning forwards.

     “You know, you never answered my question this morning, John.” He looked up from his cup through his eyelashes, allowing the storm in the cup to settle, catching John’s eye and holding him still, paralysed. Whether it was from fear or awe, John wasn’t sure; he did not dare to move a muscle. Swallowing before he replied, he maintained their connection, more afraid of showing weakness.

      “No sir, I’m sor- “ John saw a cold blue anger in them, and fought an urge to swallow nervously. He watched as Heydrich’s hand twitched and the cube dropped onto the desk. They both watched its path, and then again looked to each other, John far more cautiously. That cold rage had cooled, the flicker of blue flame frozen once more into a genteel sort of calm. This was dangerous, John felt, and it exhilarated as well as worried him.

     “Do not apologise.” Heydrich spoke each word as if spitting poison. “It makes you weak, and I cannot abide weak men.” John’s eye twitched slightly; how had Heydrich known what he had been thinking? He didn’t pull away from that discerning stare, even though every instinct told him to.

   Casting a distasteful look down at the awry cube, Heydrich looked to John. “Pick that up.” He spoke with a distain of someone who was mildly inconvenienced, and John found himself quickly moving forwards, right hand extending to pluck it from the desk, left hand brushing the grains of sugar onto the floor. Fast as a viper, Heydrich’s hand snapped forward and tightened its grip around John’s wrist, pulling him closer, over the desk, so they were both half-standing. John was as close to Heydrich as they had been last night, when that hand had touched his cheek for the first time.

   One hand, its long fingers with their clench of steel, anchored him in place. He showed no reaction beyond the slight raising of his eyebrows, face mere inches from Heydrich’s.  They were balanced in a perfect equilibrium, both unmoving and unwilling to break the silence.  Time slowed and John found himself looking internally, mentally calculating the best response. Inches apart, they could feel each other’s breath on their lips; close enough to taste each other should they wish. And still their eyes remained locked, each weighing the other silently.

      “Chief, I am not sure what you want from me.” John said firmly, but softly, remaining resolute; Heydrich was not going to find another crack in him, he was determined of that. A smirk played across the Obergruppenführer’s mouth, and John felt the back of Heydrich’s free hand caressing his cheek, his iron-cold Ehren-ring resting near his lips. He refused to react, dark eyes remaining unblinking.

     “Perhaps a better question is what _you_ want from me.” Heydrich’s hand moved under John’s chin and tilted it upright, turning it first left and then right, taking the time to inspect him closely. John kept looking at him, eyes not giving an inch. ”You’re so ambitious, aren’t you, John?” The words were whispered into his lips. “You crawled out of the heap that you landed in and have managed to claw your way to the top.” He moved closer for a moment, something John had thought impossible, stopping before his mouth touched John’s, eyes still assessing him like some newly achieved prize. “I wonder what you wouldn’t do to secure your future.” There was a pregnant pause as John resisted the urge to lick his lips.

   And like that he withdrew again, letting go of John’s wrist, releasing him but not dismissing him from his presence.  John’s heart pounded louder than a drum, his body overtaken with an unfamiliar feeling as he snapped back to his position, arms behind his back, on the periphery of Heydrich’s existence. With a gentle noise, the sugar was added to the cup, its rim kissing the mouth of his superior, leaving him with a distinct emptiness, as if he’d missed something.

     “Is that all, Herr Obergruppenführer?” He managed to speak without his voice wavering.

     “For now.” Heydrich did not take his attention away from the coffee cradled in his hands, as if meditating on something else. John felt a surge of disappointment. “Go and deal with the file I gave you, I want a briefing by the end of the week.  And John?”

     “Chief?” He twisted on the spot, giving Heydrich an almost full view of his expression.

     “One day soon, I hope you will have the answer for me.” A look that would not be amiss upon the face of a predator passed over Heydrich’s features, a sort of hunger, and then in an instant, it was gone, the ripple of emotion concealed behind a mask once again.

   John tried not to gulp as he inclined his head, closed the doors to the office and sat down at his desk, forcing himself to focus on the task. Untying the yarn that held the file closed, a myriad of photographs fell out, paperwork scattering. With a sigh he knelt to pick them all up. About half way through, he recognised one of the figures in the pictures; a very familiar Resistance member who had kept him up late last night. He smiled to himself, and began assembling information in a way only he understood, another chance to solve this puzzle presenting itself to him.

   Heydrich’s question could wait for the moment.

___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So....are you all ready for a sexy chapter? Next chapter has some sex in it!
> 
> Please review, it makes me feel hella special.


	3. Fog of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Have you considered the answer to my question, John?" In his head, Helen’s voice seemed to whisper Heydrich’s earlier words. "I hope you will have the answer for me."
> 
> John tries to find solace with Helen, but can't seem to shake his mind from the Obergruppenführer

     He made love to Helen when he returned that night, an urge unfurling within him to reach out to another person, to feel them and draw them close. To cling to something secure, the opposite of how he felt at work. Here, there were no questions he didn’t already know the answer to, no mysteries to puzzle over, no concerns over overfamiliarity. He was starting to feel some of the dread that had once driven him to sail, but that was no longer an option, landlocked as he was. So he had sought a balm for his existential fears in the embrace of someone he loved, reminding himself of all the reasons he did what he did every time he touched her.

     She had been standing by the sink drying a plate, her apron tied in a perfect bow in the small of her back, humming along with the wireless, a new tune from Germania. He hung his coat and left his briefcase by the kitchen door, before approaching his wife and slipping his arms around her waist. Helen made a soft noise of happiness aloud and smiled, turning her head slightly. She opened her mouth to ask a question but he placed a finger on her lips, silencing her as a smile played on his own mouth. Raising an eyebrow, her lips enveloped his finger and kissed it, before gently sucking on it, a coquettish look on her face.

     She hadn’t always been a picture of domesticity and this little teasing action was enough to push him to unusual forwardness. His fingers undid the knot of the apron and pulled it over her head, before turning her around to kiss her mouth deeply. Her hands pressed against his chest, grasping the lapels of his jacket, responding eagerly to his actions, fingers undoing the buttons as he shrugged it off his shoulders and onto the floor. He was often described as cold, but that was by people who didn’t know how to read his mask. Around Helen he was warm, vibrant….alive. She made him feel things he thought long lost, and as he looked at her now, her eyes shone with a need he felt in every fibre of his being. It was perfect for just the two of them, here and now, together. No questions, only answers they both sought together.

     Picking her up, he sat her on the table, mouth still pressed to hers, holding her face close, before moving his hands to her knees, parting her legs, fingers sliding upwards to brush against the top of her stockings. She leant backward; arms supporting her weight, watching him draw circles on her thighs, enjoying the sensation and his intense expression, the calm before the storm. There was a part of him that so few saw, hidden beneath a uniform decorated with medals and accolades, and she reveled in feeling it so close now.

     Her smile turned lopsided, slipping higher up on one cheek than the other. One of her hands reached up to undo the buttons of her dress, revealing a white brassiere, before leaning back and tossing her hair free of its ribbon. She looked less the proud _Hausfrau_ he’d married and more like the ephemeral beauty he’d met that first night back in Cincinnati. Biting her lip, she looked up at him through her eyelashes, encouraging him on. _Have you considered the answer to my question, John?_   In his head, Helen’s voice seemed to whisper Heydrich’s earlier words. _I hope you will have the answer for me._

     Why was this bothering him now? In response, one of his hands crept inside her thigh, his eyes intently watching her shiver in reaction to his fingers, a smile on his lips, before he pressed into the gusset of her panties, stroking her through the fabric. She lay back, her shoes slipping off, wrapping her legs about his middle. Slipping the fabric to the side, he felt as well as heard her moan, hand almost languidly exploring her wetness. His thumb flickered in circles in a motion that made her begin to unravel, fingers slowly stroking, before probing deeper. He knew what she wanted, what she needed; there were no questions, it was obvious –she didn’t ask him, didn’t tease him about his uncertainties.

     She gasped his name and pulled him over her, his mouth at her throat, her heartbeat pounding against his lips as he kissed down her neck and over her collar bone, resting at the swell of her breasts, where his hands cupped, squeezing very gently. Stepping closer to her, his hardened cock replaced a hand near her pussy, a delicious pressure that was not quite what she needed but felt wonderful nonetheless. It reminded him of their first couplings, in places more awkward than this, done speedily to both avoid getting caught and to satisfy the gnawing, desperate urges of sexuality that neither of them wanted to deny. Only this time he could feel his wedding ring pressing into her right breast, her nipple exposed by her bra, his mouth and hands taking particular delight in her.

     Their eyes met and he stopped for a moment, before continuing downwards, pressing kisses into her stomach, the tiny swell of their child barely making its presence known. He was going to make an excellent father, she could feel it. The thought banished as soon as it had emerged when she felt his hand jerked her underwear down, unclipping a stocking to move them as far out the way as possible.

     She sat up, her hands seeking and undoing the fastenings on his trousers, reaching inside. It was his turn to moan now as she took him in her hand, strong and firm, rubbing through the fabric of his underwear. Was she considering getting on her knees and wrapping her mouth around his cock – that little twinkle in her eye seemed to indicate something playful. With a look on his face that brooked no argument, he pushed her hand away, pulling himself free of constraint, and pressed their bodies back together until he found the correct angle.

     They moaned almost in unison when he first thrust inside her, breathing getting deeper. Their limbs entangled, this pressure, this delicious sensation was exactly what they had both been anticipating since he’d first approached her at the sink. It would be over all too soon, they both knew, but equally they intended to wring every last second of sensation from their connection.

     Where did one end and the other begin? One of his hands rested on the table, the other on her hip as he continued his motion, careful not to be too rough, enjoying their closeness. She rocked back against him, not quite grinding her hips, meeting each stroke of his with one of her own. His face screwed in concentration as he focussed on making it last, enjoying the reactions that overcame her body as they carried on. Her fingers gripped his shoulders, digging in through his shirt, spurring him on, desperate to feel him come inside her. A wicked expression on his face, his hand left the table and buried itself between her legs, relentlessly teasing her clitoris. She cried aloud, begging him not to stop, her grip tightening and then slackening minutes later after a final exclamation of enjoyment. Resting her head on his shoulder, her lips parted again, a string of softly spoken obscenities falling off her tongue, urging him, no, demanding him onwards. He bit back a curse and pulled her closer, faster, shallower thrusts, riding her as hard as he dared. She echoed his motions, mouth still pouring delightful filth as he anticipated his release.

     A moment of frenzy as he came, clutching her closely, the sublime calm chasing that wildness, breaking like a wave across his body, nothing but his heartbeat and her breathing and the two of them together. Panting, John lay down beside her on the table, covered in perspiration, blood pounding in his ears. He felt refreshed, body tingling, even as they were both entwined, resting against the hardwood. Helen breath less deeply than him, but her pale skin was flushed and pink. They were silent for a few moments before she rolled over and rested against him.

          “How was work?” She spoke into chest, feeling a hand stroke her hair. His heartbeat seemed like a drum to her, comforting in its regularity. He seemed to ponder the answer for a few moments.

          “I think the Obergruppenführer is testing me.” There were no secrets between them; he would spare her the grim details, but would otherwise be entirely honest. After KZ Cincinnati, it had been the only way they could have survived. His fingers reached to stroke her cheek.

          “Why would he do that?” She asked. “Because he suspects infiltration?” He was damned if he knew. A kiss to her forehead as they changed position, turning to lie side by side, his dark eyes looking into her lighter ones. John tried again.

          “Because he wants to replace us all with Germans? I don’t know.” His eyes searched her face for a reaction to his concerns. Helen frowned, her forehead creasing a little.

          “John Smith, this has to stop.” She sighed. “You are more than capable – overqualified, in fact, for this job. What if he’s testing you to promote you?” Her face went smooth and she smiled again, her hands reaching to his throat to undo the tie that was lying askew there. “If he does want to replace you, you need to disavow him of the notion.” She sat up and began redressing herself, pulling her panties back up and over her thighs, readjusting her stockings before re-buttoning her dress. John watched her, before reaching down to his jacket, withdrawing his cigarette case. He ignored the dirty look Helen gave him, knowing that she wouldn’t actually stop him, lighting up the tip of one

          “It’s a rather unusual way to test an … underling.” He said. She reached forwards and took the cigarette from his mouth, taking it to hers before drawing a breath through it. Her eyes looked over his face, before handing the cigarette back to him. “Reinhard Heydrich isn’t exactly a usual man, is he?”

     She smiled wryly at his choice of words, exhaling a stream of smoke. She noted his concern and the weariness in his body. “Go and undress, I’ll bring dinner to bed. It’s late enough to be supper now.”

     She was probably right, John mused as he picked up his clothes, meandering to their bedroom after locking his files away safely for the evening. Perhaps Heydrich was taking care to select his candidates, rather than leave it to the inefficiency of others. These were just hoops, to see how he would react and behave, a way for the powerful man to both entertain himself and stamp his authority on them. This wasn’t the Reich proper after all, this was still America, defined by its past, not yet remoulded into the image of its European parent. It was still infested with the liberalism and disobedience that had been its undoing, that had led to so much suffering. That was why Heydrich was here, after all, to use his very own brand of discipline to make the Greater Reich submit itself and its culture to its new master, to become more than just a colony paying lip service.

     The lamps were already lit, the curtains closed, so he carefully hung his clothes for the next day, peeling his damp shirt off and discarding it in the basket for cleaning. Helen emerged with a tray, a more modest portion of food prepared than usual. They ate slowly, discussing her plans for visiting her mother later the following week, considering what colour to paint the nursery. Whilst she told him about the horrendous queues for the doctors in the city, he considered what he’d do whilst she was away; perhaps surprise her by having the infant’s room ready for her. She yawned and stretched and excused herself whilst she prepared for bed, exiting to use the bathroom.

     He returned to his previous thoughts. It felt so strange thinking of New York as the capital of Amer – _The Grossdeutsches Reich_ , he corrected himself. As much an overwhelming task as it seemed, the city needed to be established as an example to the rest of the country, just as Berlin was to the entirety of Europe. The Semites may be mostly extinguished (a kinder term than ‘exterminated’, or so he told himself), but what of the rest? He suspected a great many more people would be turfed out of the city before it looked anywhere near as respectable as the centre of the American Reich would need to. One thing at a time, he reminded himself; blacks could wait until the criminals were eradicated. If they had any sense of self-preservation, they’d leave long before then. Helen returned with her face bare of make-up, switching the lights off one by one until she rested next to him. Settling together, his hand casually rested upon her stomach, drawing small circles with his index finger.

     Trying to rest, his mind kept working over and over the same thing: why had he been struck by Heydrich’s words as he had made love to his wife? He puzzled it through; his sub-conscious had drawn a link, and he’d have to figure it out sooner rather than later. John wondered how much more sleep he’d lose over this mystery, and if, ultimately, it would cost him his job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all my reviews, it makes me so happy to know you're all enjoying my work. It really does gladden my heart to know that people enjoy what I'm writing so much <3


	4. One in the Chamber

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t know what you want from me.” John repeated himself. “Herr Obergruppenführer… what do you want?” He closed his eyes, unable to bear the gaze any longer. If only Heydrich would tell him, and this game could be over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just because I left you all hanging for a month without an update.....have two chapters in one weekend.

     John replaced his lighter and the case back in his pocket as he continued to stare at the mass of papers, photos and notes that made sense only to him, arranged in such a way that he could easily reassemble, redirect and renegotiate his thoughts. Flickering through a sheaf of papers for the umpteenth time, he sighed, exasperated. It was no good, he wasn’t going to get any further today. Lighting up, he drew a breath, feeling the familiar dulling of frustration as the smoke filled his lungs. Carefully, he flicked the ash into the tray, before casting his eyes once more over the table.

     He had a notion, not quite a theory, that there had to be a connection between the Resistance and the criminal gangs in the city. His contacts hadn’t revealed a peep, and none of their usual informants were able to offer anything worthwhile to give the idea further traction. Still, the idea continued to eat away at him, gnawing at the back of his mind. Since the eradication of those considered unworthy to live within the Reich, the Semites that had managed to slip through the net were left without property, without wealth, without influence; how, then, were they managing to form a ‘Resistance’? To fraternise or collude with a Jew was to make oneself an enemy of the state, the fear of losing one’s life was enough to put off most people - it therefore followed that someone or something had to be assisting them. Someone with significant resources and favours to call upon. It therefore stood to reason that that could only be the criminal underclass that still ran parts of the city, despite the best efforts of the _Kripo_.

     Berlin, he knew, had had a similar issue during the 1930s and subsequently been cleansed of precisely this kind of scum, though he had been unable to find anyone still in active service who could advise him on how to achieve their success, having been pensioned off long ago. The paperwork, likewise, was above his pay grade, and it was rather impudent of a lowly Hauptsturmführer to request the copying and translating of hundreds of documents and having them sent to New York without actually knowing precisely what he was looking for.

     There were so many possibilities, so many threads, and the gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach indicated it was right in front of him. Sucking in another long drag, he felt the nicotine rush through his veins, the closest thing to an illicit substance he would allow himself to consume these days. How easy it had been when they had been at war! At least then he had known who the enemy was. But this did offer quite a stimulating challenge, and he would be lying if he said he wasn’t enjoying it, at least in part. If he stared at it long enough, it would have to come to him, or so he hoped. Taking another draw from his cigarette, he exhaled slowly, savouring it.

     Of course, he wouldn’t be feeling this pressure if Hauptsturmführer Muller hadn’t quit last week. Indeed, his other co-worker Obersturmführer Blaser was looking less and less able to cope with the strain of the job now that the workload had increased. John knew he should seek Blaser out, sit him down and enquire after his well-being, perhaps even flag it up with the Chief… But instead he found himself rather dispassionately watching his colleague have a breakdown, noting down the little cues that gave away his imminent mental collapse. If he wasn’t up to the task then the Reich had no use for him. Adapt or die. This was the SS headquarters, not a trade ministry. He had taken Heydrich’s advice to heart and found the change not entirely difficult to adopt.

     He reached for a list of the places the Semite Resistance woman (Sarah Brown, he’d later discovered) was known to frequent, and checked over the locations of each place, fingers tracing along the map to ensure they were correctly marked. If she had met underworld contacts in each, then provided his information was up to date, she could be dealing with up to 4 gangs within the city. From his memory he knew that at least one of them had access to significant arms, and two had large racketeering operations that generated massive revenue. Either way, it was a significant concern to them, and left him with a quandary. Did he just turn this in to Heydrich and leave it to the Oberverdachtsschöpfer to draw his own conclusions? Surely he would be in a better position to draw together the required men and departments to eradicate this problem? It was tempting to pass this on to someone else who could far better assess the situation, with better resources and experience in dealing with this. No, John realised; this was his job. If he wanted to ever get anywhere, he would need to pull this together himself, not just hand it over to Heydrich. His hand rested on the map; someone in a hidden part of him, he also feared the devastation the Chief would rain down upon the city as he scrambled to stop an infestation of rebels, as he had in Prague and Paris. Civilians rounded up and shot; he did not need that on his conscience.

     There was nothing for it, he decided, he would need to start asking for favours from other departments, there was no way this was a one man, one agency job anymore. He’d compiled all the data and pursued leads until they wound out into nothingness. He had to pursue another angle.

     But that could wait until he had finished his smoke. A glance at the clock indicated another late finish, but Helen understood and was forgiving of an hour here or there. He was flicking the last centimetre of ash when the door opened and the familiar silhouette of Heydrich entered. John started, surprised to see him here so late.

          “Herr Obergruppenführer!”

     He quickly crushed the cigarette in the ashtray and stood up to salute, once again caught off guard. It had been a few weeks since their last encounter and John was still unsure of what he was supposed to have taken away from it. “I’m sorry, I had no idea –“

          “Herr Hauptsturmführer, I was on my way out and thought I’d see how you were getting on with your little project.” Heydrich smiled a winsome smile that perhaps on any other face would have been pleasant, but on his, made John more uncomfortable. “Obersturmführer Blaser said I’d find you in here, you’ve rather made this room your own.” He passed a bored eye over all of the paperwork John had spread across the conference table, inspecting a piece of intelligence a little closer. “Have you made any further progress yet?”

          “I’ve exhausted most of these leads, sir, so I will be getting in contact with the _Kripo_ tomorrow to follow up on some further possibilities.” That was a fair assessment, John considered – not too much information, concise and to the point. “I have a suspicion it might be larger than originally thought. With your permission, I will carry on my inquiries.”

     Heydrich nodded, and then seemed to pause, his nose twitching as he caught the scent of smoke. John swallowed as Heydrich approached him again, that blue eyed glimmer that seemed to hypnotise flashing across his face. He didn’t flinch. “This is a nasty habit, John.” Heydrich spoke in that familiar velvet soft voice that was at such odds with his reputation. “I think I ought to dissuade you from further indulging in it.”

     His hands unbuttoned and parted John’s jacket, reaching inside the left breast pocket, withdrawing the case and the lighter that he kept concealed in there. Again, John did not react to the over-familiarity, locking his eyes straight ahead; he would not give Heydrich the satisfaction of seeing him ruffled. Smirking softly, he slid the cigarette between John’s lips carefully, almost caressing the lighter as he struck the wheel to make it produce a flame. Taking it to the tip, it started to burn, a lazy thread of smoke dissipating between them. They both inhaled the same air, breathing softly upon the other. So much of their time was spent weighing the other, trying to figure them out. John, to discern the source of Heydrich’s success; Heydrich, for whatever purposes he ever got fascinated by another person. John returned to reality as he felt Heydrich replace the lighter in his jacket pocket, an amused look upon his face.

          “Have you had time to consider the answer to my question, John?” Was he still on about that? John’s eyes scanned Heydrich’s face. Didn’t he realise just how dangerous New York was and here he was, more concerned with riddles and half-jokes. He shook his head, not trusting his voice. “It would help you a great deal in this situation. Let me show you.” Withdrawing the cigarette from John, he pressed it – hard - into the flesh of his right hand. John emitted a curse and tried to pull away, but Heydrich anchored his wrist firmly with both hands. John bit his lip, suppressing the tear in his eye that had sprung up from the horrible pain of the cigarette burn. “Herr Hauptsturmführer Smith, I never want to see you indulging in these foul things in my presence again, do you understand?”

          “Herr Obergruppenführer.” John choked out a response. A new office policy would make this all a little harder, but John found his heels clicking together in acknowledgement. Curiously, Heydrich took John’s hand, cupping it in his own, wrapping it carefully in his strong fingers, cradling it like a treasure. His fingertips didn’t stroke the wound itself, but ghosted over the rest of John’s hand, eliciting a shiver when they brushed against his wrist. If Heydrich could feel his pulse through the skin, it would have been pounding like a drum. John felt a drop of sweat slipping down the small of his back - nervousness at not knowing what was going on and an inability to express that feeling outwardly taking its toll on him.

     Opening his hands, they both peered at the wound, small and red and round in the juncture between his index finger and thumb. Heydrich seemed quietly pleased at the mark. John swallowed again, their eyes still locked together.

          “I don’t know what you want from me.” John repeated himself. “Herr Obergruppenführer… what do you want?” He closed his eyes, unable to bear the gaze any longer. If only Heydrich would tell him, and this game could be over.

          “When you figure it out, come and see me and we’ll discuss it.” Heydrich’s hand closed over the top of his once more and patted it gently, just enough to make the burn ache under his touch. It was meant to be reassuring, John thought. “Until then… I shall see you tomorrow, Herr Hauptsturmführer.”

     Did he sound….disappointed? John thought he detect a tinge of dissatisfaction in his voice. As he began to retreat, John addressed him again, feeling bold.

          “Herr Obergruppenführer?”

          “Yes, Herr Hauptsturmführer?” His expression was as hard as it ever way, but his voice seemed hopeful.

          “Good evening, sir.” John inclined his head, wondering where the sudden bravery had come from, and what he hoped to achieve. He felt a surge of pleasure at the small smile that graced Heydrich’s lips before he left.

          “Guten abend, John.”


	5. Phoney War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heydrich stopped midway through what he was doing, laying his pen to the side and resting his hands over his work before looking up at the Hauptsturmführer in front of him. 
> 
> When he had finished, he stood straight, eyes focussing on the painting behind Heydrich’s desk. It was a familiar image of the Führer, carefully placed but John barely saw the details. He forced his face to remain taut and his body rigid, ready to respond to whatever trap the Chief might lay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today we sail off the edge of the map into certain homosexuality. 
> 
> HERE BE DRAGONS YE'VE BEEN WARNED.

          “You’re tending your resignation?”

     He looked at the man in front of his askance before repeating the words that had just been spoken to him. The light haired man glanced back at John who fixed him with an unblinking stare. Almost accidentally, he brushed the still-angry burn on his right hand, grasping his hand under the desk, fighting to keep his features impassive.

     It was mid-morning, just after he had taken refreshment to the Obergruppenführer and his guests, when John had returned to discover the other man, coat over his arm, looking as if he was ready to leave. As he invited him to sit and talk, a prickling on the back of his neck had given him a bad feeling as he had walked behind the desk and sat down, surveying the uncomfortable looking man in front of him.

          “I’m sorry, John, I just….” Frederick Blaser looked awkward, face flushed and a little damp with perspiration. A nervous tic made his cheek twitch under John’s scrutiny. “I can’t handle the pressure. Herr Obergruppenführer is just….” He pulled a handkerchief out his pocket and daubed at his forehead. “My wife…she’s not happy. I’m not sleeping. My work is riddled with mistakes, we always finish so late. I just can’t do it anymore.”

          “But you knew you’d be working for Obergruppenführer Heydrich.” John spoke incredulously. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing; first Muller and now Blaser, leaving him as Heydrich’s single aide. He fought to control his face, suppressing the anger that threatened to seize him, the impossibility of all that was being asked of him finally dawning on him. Had his colleague really been so naïve to assume that this would have been _easy_? He gestured with his hands, the white blister from the burn flickering with pain as his fingers and thumb moved.

         “I had no idea he would be –“ Blasers’ eyes were wide, appealing to John who merely watched impassively. This was the moment for him to extend a hand, to offer to help, but Heydrich’s words _you allowed your colleagues to foist their responsibilities onto you and for you to take the blame for their failings….effective suicide for an officer_ came flooding back to him and he remained unmoved.

         “Be what?” John pressed. Frederick rested his face in his hands, looking defeated.  He seemed to shrink before him, his misery almost poisoning the air between them. John remained distant, watching him come undone before him. Every time he felt the swell of pity, the burn throbbed with renewed pain, reminding him of his previous lesson.

          “I didn’t realise the demands he would make on me would be so high.” He intoned seriously, looking through his fingers at John. His face seemed to contort with something akin to fear, and then relax as he closed his eyes.

     They were silent for a moment.

          “So why are you telling _me_  this?” John sat back in the chair, tilting his head to the side. It came to him as soon as the words left his lips, the realisation for why Frederick had come to see him on the way out. “You want me to tell Herr Obergruppenführer for you.” The words hung between them.

           “I can’t tell him myself…you have no idea what he’s capable of.” His expression was contrary to his words, as if thankful that it was someone else, not him. “He’ll take it better from you.” He was already standing and most of the way towards to door. John didn’t bother to leave his chair, his fingers laced together, the burn still sore.

           “Get out.” John looked through him, beyond the man sitting in front of him. Frustrated beyond belief, he didn’t allow it to overcome it, rather preferring to turn cold whilst he considered what to do next.

          “Be careful, John.” Frederick gave him one last commiserating look over his shoulder and left the office, the door slamming behind him and leaving John in silence for a brief while, unsure how to react. He was a tumult of emotions behind a mask of calm that he couldn’t maintain. When he was sure he was alone, he stood up, looked at the pile of paperwork relating to his project, and with an exclamation of frustration, flipped it  with one hand off the desk, paperwork scattering all over the floor. 

     He felt better, for a brief moment, watching the mass of papers spread around, appearing as chaotic as he presently felt. He felt a little sickened; work was supposed to be getting easier, so that he would be able to spend more time with Helen when she returned. Now, he’d be even busier than ever before. Exhaling, he knelt down and began to pick through the mess he’d made.

     Each and every piece of paper seemed to dig into his burn, threatening to make it rupture, and so he carefully shuffled them back into a neat pile and securing them in a folder, mediating on his previous conversation. There was something Blaser hadn’t told him, John considered, he could feel it gnawing away at him, scratching on his nerves. The wide-eyed look in his eyes, the refusal to tell Heydrich himself… something else was at play here.

     The question was – what - had Heydrich done that had scared Obersturmführer Blaser so much that he had resigned? Something told him he should have asked, probed deeper, perhaps offered comfort to his colleague… but he found that he didn’t care enough. Much as Blaser hadn’t cared to mention it besides offering vague warnings.

      A cold feeling came over him as he inspected the diary of appointments, found a free space around 11, and resolved to speak to the Oberverdachtsschöpfer then. There was no point ruining the rest of the morning.

      Time ran by and John found himself consistently checking the clock, counting the minutes until it was time to intrude upon the Chief’s solitude with his usual mid-morning  tea. A curious German custom for a second breakfast, but it gave him the ideal excuse to speak to the Obergruppenführer. He found himself leaving it as late as possible, counting the seconds as the water boiled, and making sure the tea steeped long enough, before arranging a perfect _zweites Frühstück._ Unable to avoid it any longer, he entered the room, the tray applying the barest of pressure to the burn.

          “Where is Obersturmführer Blaser?” Heydrich enunciated the question carefully, not looking up from the reports on his desk. John took a moment to breathe as he acknowledged his superior, finding calmness in the motions he had repeated so many times since his youth. Inhaling, he prepared himself to bite the bullet and face the consequences of another mans’ failings, burn mark throbbing.

          “Herr Obergruppenführer, I regret to inform you that Obersturmführer Blaser has tended his resignation, effective immediately, to me  and requested I pass along his sincerest apologies.” Striding into the room, he laid the tray down, feeling a disturbing sense of déjà vu as he lay the small china dishes out. Heydrich stopped midway through what he was doing, laying his pen to the side and resting his hands over his work before looking up at the Hauptsturmführer in front of him.

      When he had finished, he stood straight, eyes focussing on the painting behind Heydrich’s desk. It was a familiar image of the Führer, carefully placed but John barely saw the details. He forced his face to remain taut and his body rigid, ready to respond to whatever trap the Chief might lay.

           “Did he say why he no longer wished to work for me?” Heydrich asked delicately, but John though he detected a hint of disgust in his tone. John could no longer look away, his eyes dropping to hold the gaze of his superior. Did he detect a curl of the upper lip, a disguised sneer upon Heydrich’s face?  It was gone in an instant as the Oberverdachtsschöpfer brought the tea cup and saucer before him, stirring the sugar in without ceremony.

          “No, Herr Obergruppenführer.” Cold eyes burnt into his and John did his best not to buckle under the pressure.

          “And he left you to inform me?”

          “Yes, Herr Obergruppenführer.”

          “Tell me, Herr Hauptsturmführer –have I taught you nothing?” There it was –the undeniable notes of anger at him. Heydrich sat back in his chair, one hand holding the teacup, the other the saucer, surveying John’s reaction to his accusation.  John did not bite.

          “I have learnt a great deal from you, Herr Obergruppenführer, including when to pick my battles.” John spoke carefully, feeling like he was under fire. He was getting good at dodging Heydrich’s traps, but had he ever felt this exposed when he had been out in the field? He wasn’t sure anymore. “Obersturmführer Blaser had made his mind up, and with all of the other issues you were dealing with this morning, I felt it was a waste of your valuable time to bother you with such a trivial matter.”

     The Chief paused for a moment, as if considering his response.

         “I cannot abide weak men, Hauptsturmführer Smith.” Heydrich’s voice hissed the response, his expression no longer giving away his emotions, returning to the blank mask he so carefully cultivated. John’s words seem to have placated him, though he still looked at his underling with a hungry look.  He raised the cup to his lips and drank, sipping almost delicately. It was a curiously delicate action, thought John, for a man known for having an iron heart.

          “No, Herr Obergruppenführer.” It did no good to argue with the Chief when he was in this mood, but there were certain matters that could not go unaddressed. John was nothing if not practical. “But I do wonder how your office will perform with two members of staff down.”

          “Do you feel unequal to the task, John?” An eyebrow raised questioningly.  John swallowed. Another trap; if he admitted weakness, Heydrich would never stop exploiting it. If he promoted himself too much, Heydrich would take great pleasure in eroding his pride with thankless, menial tasks. A difficult call for him to make, but he was not going to let it show.

          “I am incapable of doing the work of three men, Herr Obergruppenführer.” John admitted aloud. There was no point denying the truth; there simply was no way he could run the office for Heydrich on his own. “The importance of your role here means that your staff must be running efficiently; whilst you are better off without men who cannot meet your stringent expectations, you cannot succeed without good men beneath you.”

          “Good men beneath me… is that what you think you are?” Heydrich seemed amused by his comment, and John felt blood rush to his cheeks, desperately hoping it wasn’t too apparent.

          “I consider myself loyal and hardworking, Herr Obergruppenführer. Meine Ehre heißt Treue.” John responded promptly and perhaps a little sharply. Later he realised he had exposed another weakness; his professional pride. “Do you have concerns about my performance?”

     Heydrich seemed amused, unoffended by John’s tone, continuing to drink his tea without offering comment, seemingly well aware that he had touched a nerve. John had made it painfully obvious. They remained in silence for a few minutes as Heydrich sat back comfortably and assessed John, standing in front of the desk still.

          “If I was to promote you, John, to deal with this syndicate problem, how would you feel?” Heydrich sounded thoughtful, his eyes once again looking over John, who barely heard the words. “As you said, I need good men to rely upon.”

          “Pardon, Herr Obergruppenführer?” John asked, drawn suddenly back to earth with a jolt. His revelation could not have come at a worst time.

          “I asked you how you would feel about being promoted to my right hand, John? Would you like to be Herr Sturmbannführer Smith?” John felt his stomach lurch – promotion, the golden incentive that had driven him ever since he had first sworn loyalty to National Socialism, the very reason-

_The answer to the question._

     It came to him like a bolt from the blue, a lightning strike straight from his subconscious. Blaser, probably Muller too, had had the same thing. Heydrich was toying with them all, setting them against each other to see who would be the last man standing. Late nights, early starts, impossible tasks…tasks that had possibly gone too far, in Blasers’ case.

      So the question Heydrich had kept asking, _why were you unsuccessful_ ….  John had failed because he hadn’t offered the right incentive.  Sarah Brown had revealed nothing because he’d offered her nothing in return.

     Heydrich had been teasing, testing, to find out the measure of him, to find out his ambitions, hiding it under the guise of help. He was making John turn himself inside out; twist his mind around a difficult puzzle, when the answer had been remarkably simple.

          “Forgive me, Herr Obergruppenführer, but I don’t know what to feel. One minute you imply that I am not good enough, and the next you are asking me how I feel about a promotion.” The words came automatically to his lips, his mind working fast over his realisation. “I would be honoured and pleased to be promoted, sir. But only because you had confidence in me. Until then, I will continue to serve you as a Hauptsturmführer to the best of my ability.

     Heydrich’s smile didn’t slip from his features, but he did stand up, pushing the chair back and walking around to the other side of the desk, standing right beside John, uncomfortably close once again. John didn’t flinch, unafraid as he always was.

    They had both been seeking the same thing, only John hadn’t known what it was. Manipulation disguised as mentorship. Heydrich was offering him all the opportunity he had ever wanted, and he was offering Heydrich – what exactly?

     Which also meant all the little touches, the cruel tenderness; coupled with the question _what wouldn’t you do_ equalled only one thing. A terrible, private thing that could never be named or talked about. Something to be kept hidden and away from the light of day. Something he’d killed men for in the past.  An illegal, unspoken feeling that unfurled below his stomach and made his cock ache for someone he shouldn’t, couldn’t want.

     As he looked at Heydrich, he realised that the question was  did he buckle and fold as Blaser had, or did he up the stakes and play another round with the Chief? His eyes looked imploringly up at Heydrich’s, trying to look for a clue, a tell that would allow him to judge his next move.  None came.

          “You’re nearly there, John, do you know that?” Heydrich spoke softly, his voice velvet and deep, a hand reaching up to brush a strand of hair from John’s forehead. “To finding the answer to my question.” Such a tender motion from a man known for his brutality, John thought.

      That was his moment, the gentle touch all the permission he needed: John’s hand grasped the belt around Heydrich’s waist and drew him close, looking up into the face of his superior, his body neatly tucking into the Chief’s. Hand sliding around his waist, he held them together, hand grasping firm muscle, solid cock quite distinctly pressed against the Obergruppenführer’s thigh. Heydrich did not seem surprised by John’s actions, but his body tensed against the Hauptsturmführer, muscles taut under his uniform. It was at this instance John realised just how much taller Heydrich was to him, feeling just how physically strong his opponent was.  It was too late to stop now.

          “That is where you are wrong, Herr Obergruppenführer.” John almost whispered into the mouth before him, feeling a little thrill of victory. “I already know the answer to your question.”

          “And?” Heydrich merely sounded impatient, though a smile tugged at his lips. John’s upper lip curled, but he tilted his head, leaning a little closer to Heydrich’s mouth. He could taste his breath, and watched him lick his lips in anticipation. He waited a heartbeat before taking any more actions.

          “It’s your move, Reinhard.” Lips merely millimetres apart, he let go of the Chief’s uniform and they parted, John feeling a thrill of exhilaration and also fear as he moved outside of Heydrich’s space, not waiting for a dismissal before he left the room. John didn’t look back over his shoulder, walking out of the room, breathless and with a pounding heart, desperately ignoring the throbbing between his legs.  

     Heydrich smiled to himself, waiting until John left the office, before picking up the phone on his desk.


	6. Misfire

     John waited by the car, one hand in the pockets of his trench coat, night air colder than he’d expected, the other holding the last remains of a cigarette. The neighbourhood was dingy and dirty, desperately in need of some renovation; he knew it was earmarked for reconstruction under the new regime, the funds being acquired, the plans being drawn up by Speer.  For the moment though, it was squalid and dank, precisely the last place John wanted to be spending an evening. At least he could smoke uninterrupted, he thought grimly, outside of the office and the home, without needing permission.

     The superintendent stood next to him, nervously walking back and forth, watching as John dropped the stub of a cigarette to the floor and stomping it out in the dim light. They both showed their nervousness in different ways, one by smoking, the other in the barely perceptible flexing of his fist in his pocket.

     Waiting for the _Kripo_ to finish clearing the building, John went over the morning report that he would have to make to Heydrich in a little over 5 hours; he was finding it easier these days to multitask. It had taken practise but he’d found the way to get everything done was never stop thinking; compartmentalise carefully and be meticulous in keeping work and home separate. There was no longer any time for idle thoughts or wasted time; everything was strictly appointed and neatly arranged.

     But it wasn’t this mission that had John worried; Heydrich continued to prey on his mind.  The past month had been excruciating; ever since that night in which he’d left awkwardly concealing a hard cock and a strange sadness, like a moment wasted, an opportunity lost. That had been a difficult thing to compartmentalise, awkwardly straddling the gap between work and – well, something else. Helen had noticed he was distracted but known better than to question it, soothing him with gentle words and affection without smothering him.

     She had left the city a few days ago to see her mother; they’d kissed goodbye in the apartment and he’d paid a taxi to take her to the station, unable to spare the time away from work. How lucky he was to have a wife who did not interfere with his duties, happy to trust him to do his work. The office had been a flurry of activity; calls had suddenly been returned regarding his investigation into routing out suspected underworld/resistance targets, and he’d compiled dossier after dossier with information pertaining to a list of witnesses. Several late night visits and many arrests later, he was confident that, tonight, they had a handler, someone high up enough in the organisation that they actually could squeeze for ongoing, important information that would help uproot the rest of the rotten vine. As soon as this madness was done, he could go back to a quieter life, with Helen and the baby, his position safe from Heydrich’s concerns.

     A window broke above them and a body landed, seconds later, on the pavement. John looked up at the shapes in the room, recognising the faces of the men who had only moments ago kicked the front door in. Light poured out onto the street and it looked as if a fight was occurring. With a curt nod and quick salute, the face vanished. The person had broken on the slabs like an egg, and continued to bleed, ignored, as they died. John tried not to think about it.

          “Do you think they are making too much noise?” The brown haired man next to him fiddled with his tie, rubbing his hands together after that to warm his cold fingers. “I thought this was meant to be a secret mission. I don’t want any reprisals.” He seemed unable to stand still, and it was beginning to press on John’s patience.

          “Your men are doing what is necessary to get the job done, superintendent. “ He replied coldly; people feared and respected his uniform, and it was far easier to tap into those feelings than to elicit any more comfortable emotion from those outside of the SS. This air he used, inspired perhaps by the Obergruppenführer, served to reinforce his compartmentalisation. “If we are successful, we should be able to ensure that there are no reprisals.”

     As ever, the criminal gangs held a great deal of sway over people; a mark of the decadent past, the subversion of authority from above, to below. To the criminal scum who were genetically unable to integrate into a healthy society, to contribute to the success of the overall group.  He would break that control, he would see it knocked over and rebuilt with new material. He was not afraid of retaliation; he was only too aware of how Heydrich would respond to one of his subordinates being threatened.

          “Find me names, Hauptsturmführer.” A smile had played across his lips when John had first told him of the plan. “Find me the names of the men who underpin this criminal enterprise and I will wipe the city clean.”

     For an instant, the smallest second, John had wanted to see that; to see Heydrich in his field of excellence, to see him work, tested, challenged… to observe him as Heydrich observed him every day. It would certainly be an enlightening experience.

          “I think, Herr Obergruppenführer, that your direct involvement would be damaging rather than helpful to the situation.” John had looked directly into frosty blue eyes as he had challenged him. “You dealt with French Resistance in Paris, but not without atrocity and outcry. All I need is time to gather this list and apply pressure. Your methods, whilst effective, would surely galvanise the civilian population against you, making the longer term reconstruction of the _Grossdeutsches Reich_ significantly harder. ” John’s body language had relaxed for a moment, channeling confidence into his posture. “The war is over, and less… intense methods are now required.”

          “If you’re so confident you can handle it, Hauptsturmführer.” He issued both an order and a challenge he knew that John could not resist. Heydrich waved his hand; John had exited as quickly as was polite, not sure if he’d overstepped the boundary. There was no mention of their not-kiss, either another attempt to re-instigate it or to castigate him for it. John could only wait, his future hanging in the balance of a stakeout and the mood of Reinhard Heydrich.

     At least this evening was almost over; two _Kripo_ along with a trio of SS troops were dragging a pair of men down the stairs of the tenement building and into the street, arms hooked under their shoulders, throwing them down on the pavement and yanking their heads back with their hair.

     John inspected each of them for a moment; he’d studied the photos of the individuals he wanted closely for several hours before coming out, and was confident in his ability to recognise them. Previous experiences at KZ Cincinatti had hardened him to the ways in which starvation and a lack of hygiene could alter a person’s face. His eyes narrowed as he scrutinised the men before him.

          “Are either of these who you’re looking for, Herr Hauptsturmführer?” John concentrated, recalling the shape of the eyes, the way they held themselves, the size of their mouths and the placement of their noses. He considered each in turn with a frown, before settling on one.

          “That one. Take him back to HQ, process him.” He pointed to the blond on the right, and the SS men snapped to action, bundling the body back into the van that was waiting for this very purpose.

          “And the other?” The superintendent looked suddenly more nervous

          “Deal with him.” John stated coolly.

          “Sir?” A frown appeared on his face before John realised what the problem was; he wasn’t speaking to an SS officer, but a _Kripo_.

          “Are my orders unclear?”

          “You want me to – _deal_ deal with him?” He stammered the word, as if unable to believe what was being asked of him. “Where? Surely not here in the street!” He looked between the Kripo and the SS that stood before him, as if appealing to them for help. Patience exhausted, John’s upper lip curled a little.

          "Let me do it.” He grabbed the shoulder of the quivering wreck and half dragged him around the side of the building, throwing them down beside a dumpster, kicking him hard in the knee on the way down so he had no time to flee. Crying out, he curled into the foetal position as John pulled out his Luger and fired a single bullet into his skull, the body slumping backwards, dead. Blood had splattered his boots.

          With an exasperated sigh, he re-holstered his gun, inspecting the mess on his uniform. He would have to get it cleaned before he next went to the office, he realised, before a sharp pain struck the back of his head, rendering him unconscious.


	7. Firing Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's been taken hostage, but by whom - and more importantly - what do they want?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soo this was going to be two chapters but you've waited long enough for it, so here it goes.
> 
> The next chapter has been edited too, so that will be up in about a week. 
> 
> Please enjoy!

     It was cold, and John fought to feel anything other through the numbing iciness of the cell. Pressed against the wall, he drew his knees close to his chest in an attempt to preserve his body heat, muscles aching from the strain of remaining in that position. At least the cold numbed the pain of his wounds, dark bruises spreading over his white flesh, blood breaking the surface here and there and spilling, drawn by gravity, to the floor. Did he imagine it, or was there a soft drip, drip of water to be heard nearby?

      Not for the first time, he closed his eyes, cursing his stupidity in letting himself wander off in an unknown area, with back up from uncertain elements. He had had suspicions about the integrity of the _Kripo_ , but had ignored them, too pleased with himself and wanting to earn being called _Herr_ _Sturmbannführer_. Leaning his head against his knees, he sighed. He had been warned by Heydrich previously about acting appropriately to his rank, and this was precisely why. 

     He had woken up stripped and wearing a hospital gown, a little like what the KZ camp prisoners had worn. His fingers had traced the rough fabric, imagining the blue stripes that had bleached themselves into his memory, wondering how close his own feelings about mortality had mirrored those of the people committed to die for the greater good of the state. It had been necessary then, and the actions he’d taken to purge the criminal underbelly were necessary again. If his life was the forfeit….then he’d pay.

     It was a morbid thought but he needed to recede to someplace safe and the past seemed secure. There was a strange calmness to the thought that he might die for the greater good of the Reich, and he embraced it willingly, sensing its shadow hovering.  Recriminations and picking over how he had gotten into the situation were doing nothing to help his nerves, and he needed to stay focused if he wanted to make it out of this hopeless situation.

     By god, he was hungry and thirsty! He’d tried to explore the room in the hours he’d been here, but there was nothing more than what it appeared; a grey concrete room, not even a bucket. At sporadic intervals, individuals had entered with batons and attacked him, tenderising his body for purposes yet unknown.

     He gritted his teeth and fought not to think of his wife and child. He was still alive, so they wanted something from him. He hadn’t yet been faced with any questions, only insults and physical abuse, so the purpose of his kidnap was soon going to be upon him.  Whatever information they wanted would only be useful for a short period of time before his absence was noted. In the case of any missing personnel, all procedures would be altered; Heydrich took his safety very seriously and John had no doubt he was already taking action.  

     The door opened rudely and two men entered, grabbing his shoulders and heaving him to his feet. His bare feet dragged against a rough floor as he was roughly bundled through a basement and into a tiled room at the end of a corridor, the windows covered in newspaper to keep out the light, tape criss-crossing it like a spider web. The floor was angled, narrow gutters running through it, making John frown as he sought to figure out where he was being held.

     One man released him and John took the chance to try to throw the other off, his actions met with a sharp punch to the stomach. He tried to double over but was grabbed tightly from behind by the taller of his captors, seemingly made of raw strength. The free man, a thin, weasel-like individual, grasped his wrist, raising it above his head with a painful nerve pinch, slipped a cuff around the hand and down his arm and tightened it before backing away. Suspended at an awkward angle, John watched as the men retreated from their prisoner, before returning with a fire hose, icy water blasting its way across the room and into John’s already frozen body.

     If he had thought it was cold before, it was colder now; it felt as if his body had been turned glacial, the water pressure almost enough to break his bones, bruises throbbing in places that had been unmarked before. His blood had been flowing quite freely through his veins until the second the water had hit, and now it felt as if it had all washed away down the drain, taking the last of his warmth with it. He wasn’t ashamed to admit that he cried out as the realisation of his location suddenly dawning on him.  Slightly sloped floor, white tiles, hooks descending from the ceiling: he was being held near some kind of abattoir.

     He had no way of knowing how long he had been tortured for: the clock  which was hanging at an odd angle on the wall had broken. It had taken him a while to realise that it wasn’t that time had slowed for him, the minute hand moving at an excruciatingly slow pace, but that it had actually stopped. Yet another little torment for him, but probably much less planned. He was vaguely aware of the two men talking, a couple of jeers, but it barely registered over the noise of the water.

     A squeaking noise indicated they were stopping, the water blessedly leaving his flesh, the dripping of water loud in his ears as the two men reeled the hose away, John’s body swaying gently from the hook to which he was cuffed. Aside from the mind numbing cold, the only sensation he had in his body was that of his wrist, and that felt near to breaking from holding the weight of his body.

     Smiling, the weasel man uncuffed him, letting his body slump to the floor, before once again the two of them hoisted him up, this time taking him into a dark room, a single lamp shade with a bright white light shining downwards onto a chair that was, waiting for occupants. He was frog-marched under the light, his knees kicked away so he fell into the chair. No words were exchanged. He was left in the silence of the room, still dripping with water, his body starting to shiver with the cold.  A fan blew somewhere above, each gust of air colder than the last, and he shook in his seat, concentrating on a fixed point on the wall to retain balance, fighting images of Helen out of his mind, closing his eyes and trying to convince himself it was just a bad storm he was weathering in his boat, an ill-time march in the cold and rain….anything that wasn’t the truth.

     He couldn’t have waited long when a man and a woman entered, dressed in a non-descript manner. They were not recognisable from his research, their features as plain as could be.  The female, was a woman in her 40s, her face older than it should be, wearing a little too much lipstick. She walked over to him, unscrewing a bottle, the man retreating against the wall at the other end and holding a sheaf of papers. John’s observation wasn’t as sharp as it usually was, but that was the lack of sleep and food and warmth. Gritting his teeth, he sat up straight and looked her in the eyes.

          “Would you like a drink?” From in front of him, she uncapped the bottle and offered it to him. He surveyed her unblinking, shivering but still severe.  “Suspicious, aren’t you?” Her eyebrow cocked with amusement. “If we’d have wanted you dead, you’d be in a ditch already.”

     He gave no indication either way, carefully controlling his reactions.  She looked over to the wall, and the younger man took over.

          “John Smith, born in Cincinnati, August 18th, 1921.” His voice belied his youth, and John struggled not to react to this, caught somewhere between amusement and horror at the people who were his chosen interrogators. “You have an impressive war record…you were also one of the first to sign up to the party in your district.” He looked up from the paperwork. “You are here because we have been made aware that you have been interfering with us for the past few months, eliminating our friends one by one.”

     John said nothing still, feeling his body waiver, muscles quivering even as he struggled to master them. He wondered how long he could take this before his mind or body crumbled and he broke.

          “We want to know every detail of Obergruppenführer’s routine. What time does he wake up, what routes he takes, who works in the SS HQ, ways in and out. Anything and everything that could be useful. As soon as you do that, you can go home to your wife, and no one will ever know it was you who told us. Understand?” She smiled and offered him a pen. “Anton is going to give you a paper to write it all down on. Just tell us what we want to know and you can go home.”

                So that was why they hadn’t broken his fingers –yet.  He looked at the pen she was holding towards him and considered it; he had been a fool to discount the idea that there might be repercussions for his involvement with scouring the criminality out of New York.

     He rested his hands in his lap, fingers laced together, thumb resting on the still present burn mark, barely there, but still sensate. His empty stomach lurched, a feeling of horror overcoming him as he caressed the mark; how could he have even considered betrayal, even in passing? Pressing it gently, a stab of pain bought to mind the day it had happened, Heydrich’s expression, his presence; no one could betray such a man, not when he looked at you like that. His heart beat faster, feeling his defiance rejuvenated. He had to find a way back, and if he couldn’t….he knew where his duty lay. His life for Rein -  _Obergruppenführer_ Heydrich’s.

     His body gave way at that point and he tumbled to the side, his vision a little blurry as he hit his head, his arms not properly breaking the fall. Neither of them made a move to help him.  The woman knelt beside him, a wet puddle of rough cotton and cold flesh.

          “One side of paper and this will all be over.” Her voice was gentle, but to his ears it sounded distant and rasping. The words came automatically to his lips, programmed from his many years in the military.

          “I am Hauptsturmführer John Smith,  4783905, born 18/09/1921.” Her face contorted and he felt her boot bury itself in his body as she stood up. Replacing the pen in her breast pocket, she looked down at him

          “We have no use for a man who won’t talk.” She left the room, waving at the man in the corner to follow her. A small smile settled on his lips, and he fell unconscious again.

 

~~~

 

      He woke up in a different place, he was certain of it before he even opened his eyes. The room was dark but warm: he lay on a hard floor, cocooned in blankets, his reactions still sluggish. It smelled musty, a tangy metallic scent in the air. His eyes followed the pipes that lined the ceiling and walls, and listened to the thrum of water through them, and surmised he must be in or near a boiler room, judging by the uncomfortably warm temperature.  Sitting up, he mentally checked himself, and then inspected his extremities –everything seemed intact and free of the blackness that would indicate long term damage from his previous icy torture.

     He’d been stripped, body covered in sweat, skin still cool but no longer frozen. He flexed his arm, wondering if it was a poison or a drug, discovering he had a full range of movement still, even if that movement was a little slower than he’d like. He clenched and unclenched his fingers into a fist, opening and closing it, watching the bones and ligaments of his hand until he was sure he was conscious and in control of his faculties.

     A plastic cup was placed beside him, filled with water; no glass, in case he got inventive with ways to end his life. His breathing steady, he reached for the cup, sitting up slowly, feeling a little dizzy, and sipped, his breathing shallow. He was still alive, for now. He wasn’t sure that was such a good thing.

     This entire operation was professional, he realised, with a solid plan behind it. How long had they been watching him, how long had he been unaware of their presence? They knew where he worked, they knew about Helen…they knew that unorthodox techniques would be more successful with him. Dropping him into hypothermia and then drawing him back, just enough to confound and confuse him, with the hope of something slipping. In many ways, it was the ideal way to break him personally. What remained of his stomach sank further as he considered the implications of his thoughts.

     How long could he actually survive this before he broke – either his silence or physically? If the resistance was able to both kidnap and hold an officer of the SS without anyone in the Reich realising…he had failed his job catastrophically. Putting his head in his hands, he felt the stubble on his cheeks and guessed it had been at least a day away – someone had to be looking for him by now.

     His musings were interrupted once again by his silent prison guards, seizing him and hoisting him to his feet.. He was dragged, and this time he felt every scrape of the floor against his flesh, tearing through his skin. Again he was seated in a chair, his knees and shins bloody and raw.  Once they were sure he would make no attempt to fight them, his left wrist was cuffed to the arm.

     This time a table, two chairs and a telephone waited patiently, room empty and cool. No doubt he was supposed to feel inadequate, unimportant, and uncomfortable; but he had shed his inhibitions about nudity years ago, the German _Freikörperkultur_ imported at the same time as National Socialism and was accepted as the norm now.

     He breathed deeply and slowly, giving no indication of his fear. _Meine Ehre heißt Treue_ , he repeated to himself, _Meine Ehre heißt Treue, Meine Ehre heißt Treue._

     People entered the room, but he paid them no attention, taking the last few seconds to repeat his mantra to fortify himself.  When he refocused, he was face-to-face with the same male and female. He blinked slowly, waiting for them to say something first.

          “Have you had time to think it through?” She smiled, cutting straight to the heart of the matter. “We have no use for a man who won’t talk. You have one last chance to tell us what we want.” She nudged a pencil and a sheet of paper towards him.  “Time is short and my patience is thinning. Write.”

          “You owe them nothing.” The young man said simply. “Save yourself and your family.”

          “Write everything you know.” Her tone didn’t fluctuate. John didn’t take his eyes off her.

           “Go to hell.” John spoke finally. His thumb rubbed the burn mark, almost invisible now but a motion that nonetheless reassured him.

     The young man looked to the woman before picking up the receiver, turning the phone as he input one digit at a time, a number John couldn’t quite see. The phone was turned back and handed the receiver to him, not breaking eye contact.

           “Hello?”

          “Helen” He couldn’t fail to recognise her voice; it was the first he heard in the morning and the last he heard at night. But probably never again, he thought with a stab. And there was no way to warn her.

           “Oh, it’s you, John!” She sounded joyful ad relieved to hear from him, and he could almost imagine the smile tugging the corners of her lips. He felt sickened to realise he’d worried her, especially with the baby. 

          “How are you?” He fought to keep his features neutral, but knew he was failing.

          “Fine. You haven’t called in a while…is everything okay?” He could hear a dog barking in the background and the static worsened for a few seconds – the lines still weren’t as reliable as they could be.

          “It’s just busy in the office at the moment.” He dismissed her fears out of hand – when had he gotten so comfortable at lying to her? His thought tightened at the thought; since he’d started working for Heydrich. Since he’d left being a soldier and become a bureaucrat. “You know how the Obergruppenführer can be.”

          “Oh yes, you should be near the end of your project by now.” She almost sounded like she was laughing. He was probably interrupting tea on the veranda with his mother-in-law, or a knitting circle. Something so normal and so far removed from the situation that he was in.  How he wished he’d paid more attention to her in the past, so he had a clearer image of what she could be doing. Perhaps, if he’d gone home early one day, he might have caught her in the act of one of her routines, and he would be able to see it now. “Did you catch the bad guys?”

          “Yes.” He swallowed the lie, feeling it stick in his throat on the way down. He had never been able to tell her the specifics of what he was working on, and she had never asked detailed questions, keeping it vague.  ”We caught the bad guys.”

           “Oh good! I’ll come home soon. It’s lovely to get away, but I wish you were here.”

           “Me too.” He’d never wanted anything more in his life.  She had lowered her voice, as if it was a secret she didn’t want her mother overhearing. He was struck with how similar it was to when they were courting, the two of them stealing moments on the newly-installed telephones in both their houses. How appropriate for it to begin and end like this for them. “Maybe we can take the baby there when it’s born.” He swallowed. “I’m sure your mother will love to have us.”

          “I miss you, John.” Her voice suddenly went serious, and she spoke other words, the distortion losing them and any meaning she had intended to get across. John felt their loss very acutely, an ache inside that he hadn’t felt since the war.  “The line is really poor…I can barely hear you.” She sounded resigned, but hadn’t picked up on him being out of sorts. Perhaps that would keep her safe.. “I’ll call you at the apartment tomorrow night, alright?”

          “Alright.” He looked down, praying he had the strength to hold himself together. “Goodbye, Helen. I love you.”

          “Oh John. “ She sounded amusedly embarrassed; they were both usually so formal, it must have flustered her a little to hear him say it.  “Goodnight.”

          “Goodnight.” He repeated. The line went dead, and though he had kept himself together, he found his hand strangely unwilling to surrender the receiver over.

          “We know where your family is. Write down everything you know about Obergruppenführer Heydrich.”

          “Write down everything you know or you die right here, right now. And your wife and child die tomorrow.” She jabbed her finger into the paper once more. “Make your choice.”

     He looked at the offered pencil and inhaled, closing his eyes. The gun cocked behind him, an ominous clicking that fell sort of its ambition to intimidate him. He had just said goodbye to the only person in his world who meant more to him than life -he felt oddly calm, resigned to his end, determined to retain his dignity.

     How often as a young man he had contemplated what he would do in this situation, and how easy the answer had come to him when there had been nothing at stake. Oddly calmed, he realised the answer hadn’t changed, there was just a need to ponder what exactly one was sacrificing.

     A million thoughts ran through his mind, some treasured memories, some memories he hoped to make – would his child take after him or Helen? The last ball game he went to with Edmund before he had started to falter. Would their child be a boy or girl, and what would their first word be? Would they have more children and where would they go in the world?  The colour of Helen’s cheeks when she had walked down the aisle, her head wreathed in flowers. Would he ever move his family out of the city? So many thoughts and dreams and plans that would all now come to naught. He opened them as he exhaled and sat back in his chair. 

     He carefully took the pencil and snapped it, hold each half in either hand, before placing it down on the paper. 

     They were going to kill him anyway.

     He knew this, because it was exactly what he would do in their position, the only difference being he had the weight of the law on his side. If he told them what they wanted to know, they would only kill him and his family, as well as Reinhard and his wife (What was her name again?) and their children… It was a false bargain in which he would have no part in.

     He would take responsibility; with his death, Heydrich would decimate the population of New York to make an example.  Thousands would die, but the resistance along with its underworld would be eradicated.

          “And that is your final answer, John?”

He looked at her evenly. They seemed to wait for an eternity.


	8. Superior Firepower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All of the pieces are in play; John patiently awaits his fate. One final move remains....

     The phone before them rang, shrill and loud, cutting the thick silence like a knife.  It surprised John, who watched the occupants in the room respond to it, uncertain what was going on. The woman didn’t seem surprised and took the call, bringing the speaker to her ear. He couldn’t make out the words of the caller, but the woman listened intently, eyes focusing on the wall behind him, nodding her head along with what was being said to her. When the conversation seemed to be over, she turned to the others in the room.

           “You heard Hauptsturmführer Smith’s answer.” She barked. “You’re all dismissed.” Turning back to John, she offered the telephone to him.  “He wishes to speak to you.” She said simply, standing up and saluting crisply before leaving the room. She placed the key for his cuff on the table, leaving him alone.

     Caught a little off-guard, John waited, puzzled, for a few seconds before finally picking up the call.

          “Hello?” John’s voice rasped, his throat tight.  What in the name of hell was going on; who would be calling them – and why had he been saluted? His mind began to race through the possibilities, settling on an answer he with which he wasn’t entirely comfortable.

          “Ah, John.” A familiar voice, well-polished and controlled spoke his name; Heydrich.  John nearly wretched. Whether it was from relief or anger he didn’t know. “I trust you are still in one piece?”

          “Herr Obergruppenführer.” He was lost for words, confused, uncertain - was this another trick to try to get him to reveal information? Was he speaking with the real Reinhard Heydrich? His heart pounded, but he bade it be silent.

          “Good.” He sounded almost smug – unable to see his face, John was unable to quite put his finger on it. “I’m sending a car to pick you up – if you leave the room you’re presently in, there is shower room at the end of the corridor. Everything you need will be in there. Clean yourself and be ready in half an hour.”

      The line went dead, the dull tones of a one-way call echoing through the receiver that he carefully replaced. A hundred unanswered questions rushed through his mind.  John stood up, body weak, and he staggered the first few steps, very aware they were the first he’d taken on his own in at least a day.

      The place was deserted and cold, and he quickly found the showers: lockers lined one side of the room, with a wall in the middle that didn’t quite reach the ceiling. Walking to the other side, there was a row of neat cubicles offering a degree of privacy for their occupants that seemed to fit with his theory of it being an abattoir.

     He turned the water on, twisting the handle almost fully open. Warm water followed, scalding his skin, but he didn’t mind; indeed, he hardly noticed, his mind struggling to wrap itself around what had just happened. Heydrich had called him moments after a gun had been held to his head, the woman had addressed him by rank, which meant…

      Which meant he’d been tortured by his own side for the past …  however long it had been. Which also meant-

      Helen was safe.

      He exhaled a shuddering breath, feeling tears well up. Clenching his fist, he slammed it into the wall, determined not to sob aloud, that was not who he was. Again and again once more, he banged the tiled wall before sliding down, unable to prevent the physical reaction to knowing his family was and had been safe the entire time.

      He sat on the floor, glad for the privacy, unable to hold back a single noise, somewhere between a sob and an exclamation of happiness, resting his head on his knees, curled up, just letting himself feel the water run through his hair and down his back. He could hardly call this soothing, but he felt the minutes pass, and felt himself calm.

      His moment of weakness passed, and he stood up slowly, mechanically reaching for the soap, efficiently cleaning himself as thoroughly as possible, hot water purging his skin of the remaining cold, the filth from the past few days, physical and metaphorical. As he scrubbed, he inspected for any other damage; aside from a few bruises and the scraping on his knees and shins, he cleansed them of dirt.

     He discovered a towel on the other side of the wall, a hanger that proudly displayed his uniform, cleaned and ironed, his boots shined and concealing shoe trees neatly waited for him. A wash kit with a safety razor and a hair brush waited for him by one of the sinks, and he carefully applied soap to face, scraping off the stubble and filth that disguised his usual clean shaven, well presented appearance. He studied his face in the mirror, checking for any damage, but he seemed free of bruises and cuts, as did his hands.

     A car meant that he was being taken back to Heydrich, and he had to formulate his response to the man who had made him believe his wife and unborn child were going to be murdered. Inhaling, he began to consider his options, dressing himself and waiting for the inevitable time to come.

___

      John sat before a well presented table, a small vase holding a single yellow rose, silverware gleaming in the half light. He’d been driven to a high-end hotel and escorted to these rooms, discovering Heydrich waiting for him, an unopened bottle of wine waiting, food already lain out before him.  His escort saluted Heydrich and left, locking the door behind him as John had sat, finding a cigarette case and lighter to the left-hand side of his fork.

      He looked at the man opposite him, who was himself pouring the wine into both glasses, a bright, blood-red wine from the continent.

           “There’s no need to stand on ceremony, John.” He had smiled, but it hadn’t quite reached his eyes. “Please eat, you must be famished.”

      Sensing no trap, John began to eat, hiding his gnawing hunger behind a façade of politeness. His insides churned; was he angry, or relieved, that he wasn’t going to die, that it had all been an elaborate ruse? He made no eye contact until he had finished, sipping alternatively between the wine and a glass of water that had also appeared. Heydrich didn’t seem to care about the lack of conversation, picking at his own food as if more interested in watching John. It felt awkward not speaking, but John didn’t trust himself to say a word. Did he want to lash out at his superior, or embrace him out of sheer relief? Neither was appropriate, but both were equally appealing right now.

     All too soon, he placed his knife and fork on the plate before him, carefully removing the napkin and placing it on the table. Almost unperceived, Heydrich had appeared next to him, refilling his glass, reaching around his shoulders, invading his personal space once more. He caught the vaguest whiff of cologne clinging to Heydrich, and closed his eyes, turning his head to the side. He had believed that he’d never inhale that scent again, or be this close to his superior. And it had been all Heydrich’s fault. He felt rage bubble.

          “I’ll allow you an indulgence this once, John. “ Those long-fingered hands were toying with the cigarette case, removing one and handing it to John, his fingertips cold as they brushed John’s. John put it in his mouth, holding still as the lighter was brought to the tip, and drew a breath, a sweet inhalation that soothed his nerves somewhat. “You look like you need it.”

      Heydrich retook his seat, lacing his hands before him on the desk, considering John. If either of them found the setting unusual, neither said a word.

          “You must have a lot of questions for me, so I will answer the most important first.” He took a sip of wine before continuing, watching John take a drag, soft tendrils of smoke dissipating between them. “Your family are safe, in fact, they’ve had a car watching them 24 hours a day since you started working for my office.” He raised an eyebrow. “We don’t allow SS officers and their families to be the target of terrorists.” John remained silent, listening to what Heydrich was saying.  “Your investigation has turned up a number of leads; whilst you have been otherwise engaged, several of the individuals your groups have picked up have been convinced to start feeding us back information on their higher ups.” He stood up at this point, walking towards the window and opening it a little, the air cooling a little. “Your little project has been a success, and the promotion we discussed is just waiting for you to change the badges on your uniform.”

     John remained silent, even as his superior turned back around to look at him, his face less amused than it had been. “Come now, John, don’t look at me like that. I had to be certain you were capable.”

         “Capable?” It was the first word he’d uttered since arriving, and he struggled and failed to keep the contempt from his voice, left eyebrow cocking.  Heydrich’s face didn’t change, his hand reaching to his throat, loosening the tie knotted there. John watched this, not recognising the action for what it was.

          “Yes. I can’t afford for the men beneath me to be weak. Consider it a test of your resolve and your loyalty. ” He cast a look at John. “Didn’t you wonder why Blaser left? It certainly had nothing to do with his wife.”

           “Muller too?” John asked; he was getting through the cigarette a lot faster than he wanted to, and tried to savour the rush it was giving him.

           “No, that man was just lazy. He expected working under me to be a walk in the street.”

          “You mean a walk in the park?” John asked with no trace of humour or a smile on his face.

           “You must be angry. You’d have never corrected me before.” It almost sounded like Heydrich was teasing him, and that managed to finally get a rise out of him.

          “What do I have to be afraid of any more, Obergruppenführer? You can have me and my family killed at a whim, as you so aptly spent the last two days demonstrating.” The dangerous smile he was given infuriated him; how easily this man destroyed lives, all for his own amusement.

          “John, why do you think I did all that? It’s a tremendous effort to go to in order to just make you afraid of me.” He drank deeply from his glass. “I could just have easily have invoked that in the office.  Come now, you’re not stupid. _Why_ would I arrange to have you kidnapped?”

     Surging with rage, John forced himself to ponder it; what purpose _did_ torturing him serve? Heydrich did nothing without purpose, and this had been a substantial investment of resources. He drew one last time on the cigarette before crushing it out, resting his elbows on the table as he steepled his fingers in consideration.

          “The Resistance still has strength here through its connections to the gangs of the city…what better way to undermine the arrival of Obergruppenführer Heydrich than to plant spies within his organisation or to try to turn his own operatives against the regime he serves.” John released a shuddering breath. “Not only did you have us all working on rooting them out, you also had us picked up and put to the question; assessing us through our research methods and our integrity. Blaser was also apprehended and treated the same as myself and either broke under torture or realised he couldn’t handle the pressure.” He looked at Heydrich, who neither confirmed nor denied. “You knew he would resign. You knew he would resign and you still held me responsible that day in your office.” Emotions were clouding his analysis too much today, his rage at being played like a puppet on a string stronger than anything he’d ever felt. He tried to repress it, and had no idea how well he was succeeding. Or perhaps it was the wine, muddling his thoughts.

          “I could hardly tell you at the time, John.  It would have given you an unfair advantage. I have learnt from many years of pacifying cities that you have to clear your own house first, assure loyalty from the onset.” He sighed, a ponderous look on his face. “I will confess to having a fondness for wanting to see how you react under pressure.  You did admirably. I doubt I could have done better myself.”

     There was silence again between them. In the future, if John had to look back and pinpoint when his relationship with Reinhard Heydrich had significantly changed, it would be this moment, the very second that it had dawned on him that Heydrich took pleasure from watching him suffer, challenging him and testing him.

     In previous instances, he had feared some sort of degenerate homosexual desire, but it was this minute that he realised the designs Heydrich had on him went beyond that. Reinhard had enjoyed their peculiar dance, the not-quite student/mentor relationship that existed between them, the almost paternal nature of his admonitions and guidance testing and tormenting him.

     Of course his superior was a sadist, but it wasn’t until now that John realised just _how_ much of a sadist he was.  This was also the singular moment he himself was able to influence the tone of their relationship. He was no meek lamb to be slaughtered, and he would not allow himself to be subsumed by the older man.

           “Why.” He uttered a single word, innocent and unafraid of meeting Heydrich’s cold blue gaze.

           “What?” This was seemingly not the reaction Heydrich was expecting, and it thrilled John, despite himself.

           “Why do you like watching me?

            “Do you not enjoy watching your underlings work? Does it not give you pleasure?”

     He pushed his chair back. He felt Heydrich’s eyes boring into him and tried not to notice. John bit back on his pride, straightening up and walking to stand beside the still-seated Heydrich, allowing his left hand to rest on the epaulette on the Chief’s shoulder.

          “I think we both know this is more than strictly professional, Herr Obergruppenführer.” John spoke more softly than he had all night, the rage still inside, but being whipped into something else entirely.  This was not a role he was used to; he was not coy in any relationship, but as he looked up at Heydrich through his eyelashes, he realised that it would be worth it, to enslave the Man with the Iron Heart. “I think there is something you want from me. Something you won’t ask for.”

          “Oh John, you never fail to surprise me.” Despite his mocking tone, Heydrich didn’t move, sitting straight as a poker in his seat. “What makes you so sure?”

          “The answer to the question you keep asking me about.” John murmured “I’m offering you an incentive you couldn’t resist.”

      Heydrich reached and dragged John down to his height, his right hand retrieving his pistol out its holster, before dragging the tip of it across John’s cheek, an almost hiss escaping his lips as he drew the end of the gun around John’s mouth. John, in reply, opened his mouth, the tip of his tongue touching cold metal, before he leaned a little more forwards and wrapped his lips around the barrel. He waited a heartbeat before opening his eyes and looking to Heydrich,

          “Tell me you want me to stop.” John spoke as the gun was withdrawn from his mouth and almost tenderly pressed against his temple.  Heydrich’s thumb moved, cocking the gun. “Try to convince me this wasn’t your ambition all along. You have exactly what you want.” A shudder of fear ran through his body, but John was too inured to Heydrich’s intimidations by now. “Tell me your orders, Herr Obergruppenführer. What do you want to do to me?” He spoke the words with conviction, like a well-known prayer, familiar words on his lips, appealing to a higher power to answer the call. “Why do you still hold back?”

     With a snarl, John found himself yanked downwards by the lapels of his jacket, a hungry, warm mouth pressed to his. It was rougher than a normal kiss, all teeth and need and desperation. Almost subconsciously, John found himself grasping at the man who held him so fiercely, hands digging into his shoulders to anchor him in place.

     It was like nothing he had ever felt before; all hard edges and the urge to challenge and fight and hurt his partner. Teeth tore at his lip and Heydrich bit his mouth, his fingers sharp as knives digging into his flesh. John’s hand found the curve of Heydrich’s skull and held him close, breathing deeply before kissing again, his other hand ensuring the gun was taken from Heydrich and placed safely on the table, before tentatively slipping around his back and drawing him close.  He felt his cheeks burn as he felt his cock press against another equally hard prick, something primal seizing him as his hand slid around to rub them together.

     Heydrich seemed to chuckle into their suffocating kiss and draw away from John, who was red-faced from need and embarrassment.

           “I’m going to enjoy making you suffer, John. “ Heydrich’s hand reached for John’s face and tenderly stroked swollen, bitten lips, before seizing his throat and squeezing a little.  John’s eyes widened, hardening further in response, breathing more laboured. “I’m going to enjoy hurting you.” This time, it was another hand that touched his cock, and roughly grabbed it. “And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.” He leant closer to John’s face, and he was sure it was for another kiss.  “I am going to make you beg for me.” Whispered words caressed his face before he felt a tongue lap at the small trickle of blood that collected in the corner of his mouth.

           “As you command, Herr Obergruppenfuhrur.” John replied as soon as he was released, feeling like a cadet, breathless and in total awe of the man before him. Heydrich seemed to have taken a step back, taking in the sight of John before him.

           “Reinhard. You can call me Reinhard, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was...intense. I never thought I'd write a fic with a character based off a real person so Heydrich was a real challenge. I was, however, basing it more off Ray Proscia's delightful interpretation of the Blond Beast than any *actual* historical reading. Kudos to Rufus Sewell's portrayal of John Smith for inspiring me and the rest of the fandom. 
> 
> Thank you to all my lovely readers, for the kudos and for the comments - Its been a blast. Its been awesome getting to know you and seeing your reactions. It has been my pleasure to write for you and I'm so glad you have all being so kind and helpful with your words. I was genuinely afraid of putting this online in case I got negative comments on the subject matter, but you have been a dream. 
> 
> I'm currently working on a piece of original fiction and your encouragement has really boosted my confidence. Fingers crossed I can find a publisher, perhaps you'll find my work in a bookstore!
> 
> And now for some more specific comments...Its wonderful to think I have fans <3 
> 
> Dekitris : It has been amazing to chat with you and share recommendations for books and films - I've discovered some great things and hope we will keep chatting on the Discord channel. 
> 
> ClementineStarling : Darling ClemStar, thank you for messaging me and introducing me to more TMiTHC fans <3 
> 
> viceindustrious : you still owe me fic. That is all ;) Just kidding -your encouragement and enthusiastic whip-cracking to get this done has made me smile and got me working :)
> 
> Commander_Tano : So glad you've enjoyed - I'll try and add some more High Castle fic in the future!
> 
> Foxhunt : Sorry to let you down, but this is all I ever planned for them, otherwise I could write reams. Glad you enjoyed it, and hope you're not too mad.
> 
> DreamingWood : That is very high praise indeed! I hope it finished satisfactorily.
> 
> SepticStache : *fingers crossed* Let me know if it met your expectations!
> 
> melbournes : Thank you for your kind words on my characterisation, I watched Rufus A LOT in many rewatches of High Castle to make sure that I got him *just* right. Hopefully you found the later chapters as good.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback appreciated - Love to all of you!


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